


Ricochet

by robocryptid



Series: Ricochet [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Humor, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Frisking, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jesse McCree is Joel Morricone, Lies, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Recall, Sexual Content, Some Gay James Bond Shit, Unresolved Sexual Tension, assholes in love, cat-and-mouse games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22912846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: Jesse toppled a government or two, caused a few explosions, murdered more bad guys than he can count, and probably a few innocents too. He caused more collateral damage — ruined more lives — than he’ll ever account for, and the world didn’t change a bit. He did his time, and he’s not going back.Too bad Overwatch doesn’t want to take no for an answer.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Series: Ricochet [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808677
Comments: 121
Kudos: 903





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt from mataglap, except that it took on a life of its own and spiraled wildly out of control and the prompt is now _barely_ relevant: "you're the last person I would have expected to do that"
> 
> "Some Gay James Bond Shit" tag lifted directly from motorghost's description of this fic
> 
> Other tags may be added as this fic updates! Some tags (such as "non-consensual drug use") may be a case of overtagging because, well, context is everything. If you spot other things you think should be tagged, I am always happy to update them!

#

After Jesse sends her off to Overwatch, Echo tries to contact him a few times, but she’s easy to put off. She’s too literal to fully process a lie by omission until it’s too late. Angela’s harder, but she also doesn’t put her heart into pressuring him. She’s as ambivalent about the job as she’s ever been; she’s got no good arguments to drag him back into that mess except the ones that’ll remind her she’s probably the one making the mistake. Winston asks him personally once, and Jesse says no, and that’s that. 

Genji asks him to join up right after the Recall. It’s funny that between the two of them, Genji turned out to be the one most loyal to the organization. After he tells him no, Jesse thinks Genji drops the subject like Winston did, but three months later, there’s his name lighting up the phone screen again. It shows up sporadically after that. A few times, Genji tries to dig for clues to Jesse’s whereabouts, but he’s not as subtle as he thinks he is. 

Reinhardt tries to call him. Torbjörn tries it too. It doesn’t matter. 

Jesse toppled a government or two, caused a few explosions, murdered more bad guys than he can count and probably a few innocents too. He caused more collateral damage — ruined more lives — than he’ll ever account for, and the world didn’t change a bit. He’s done his time, and he’s not going back. 

* * *

A few months post-Recall, Jesse’s started to see Overwatch in the news again. There’s Paris first, then Rio. He doesn’t know where they’ll wind up next, but the cat’s out of the bag. There were rumbles underground well before now, but he’s more interested in what they’re getting up to in the public eye. That’s the stuff he has to figure out how to spin, after all. 

He blogs a lot and freelances a little, and most of his time online is devoted to persuading folks that, whatever his personal baggage may say about the rest, Overwatch is here to help. Between writing gigs, he does the job he’s best at: hunting down the kind of criminals who make the world a more dangerous place. He can’t change much on the large scale, but there are plenty of folks out there whose day-to-day lives are a little better because of him. It counts for more than he ever realized it could. 

He keeps on the move both for the job and to keep folks off his back — the authorities, the enemies he’s collected over time, and lately, his well-meaning friends. It’s a lot harder to come calling if they don’t know where he is. Genji’s the one most likely to hunt him down, and Jesse hasn’t caught wind of more than his hopeless prying over the phone, so he figures he’s doing something right. 

He’s working out of a hotel in Phoenix at the seven-month mark. He has a half-finished article in front of him, and his eyelids are starting to droop. The hotel lobby has a coffee shop attached, so he pulls his hair back, puts on his fake glasses and makes his way down to the ground floor. It’s not much of a disguise, but it’s amazing how closely most folks _aren’t_ looking. He wears the cowboy duds because he likes them, but they have the added benefit of rendering him functionally invisible in civilian clothes. 

He gets friendly with the barista and tips generously, then he heads back to the room. Just outside, there’s a swoop in his gut, but he doesn’t register it until he opens the door. He’s got his gun out from under his jacket in a flash. His latte splashes his jeans on the way down and pools at his feet, but he doesn’t take his eyes or gun off the intruder. 

The stranger’s sitting at the table Jesse’s using for a desk, and in most other circumstances he’d have Jesse’s full attention for entirely different reasons. Even now there’s a sick part of him that gets a kick out of the challenging look in those dark eyes and the faint hint of a smirk. 

“I am not here to hurt you,” the stranger says in a gravelly voice and a thick accent. There’s a compound bow leaning against his chair and a gun in his hand, though, so Jesse’s not sure he buys it. “We have mutual friends.” He pushes something along the desk, and Jesse sees the Overwatch logo on an official comm device — much shinier than his half-busted old one, but familiar nonetheless. 

“Lot of ways you could’ve gotten your hands on that.” Jesse doesn’t lower his gun, but he does step over his fallen coffee cup and let the door swing shut behind him. 

The stranger sighs. He broadcasts every movement as he slowly reaches out to tap the comm a couple times. 

_“McCree!”_ It’s Genji’s voice, ringing out cheerfully from the comm. _“If you’re listening to this, that means my— friend found you.”_ There’s the slightest hesitation before _friend,_ and Jesse doesn’t try to pretend he didn’t notice. From the sardonic twist of the stranger’s mouth, he heard it too. _“Japanese guy, black hair, it’s probably tied up, stupid piercings. Big blue dragon tattoo. I will vouch for him. Please don’t try to kill him.”_

Jesse chuckles at that, then at the stranger’s raised eyebrow. He’s still not putting his gun down though. “Confirm the tattoo.” 

The guy seems torn for a second, clearly trying to figure out how to hang onto his gun and take off his clothes too. He settles for shifting the gun to his left hand and using the right to shove the sleeve of his jacket up to the elbow. The whiskered face of a blue dragon snarls amid roiling clouds. It’s an elaborate piece, and part of Jesse wants to know just how far it extends. That part isn’t helped when the man asks, “Is that enough, or shall I strip for you?”

It’s only sarcastic, not said like the man has some idea of what’s rolling around in Jesse’s idiot hindbrain, but Jesse still wants to know how he’ll react when he says, “Maybe later.” Disappointingly, he doesn’t have much reaction at all beyond mild surprise. “Put the weapon down.” Jesse times his movements to match the stranger’s speed, but eventually he also sets his gun down on the nightstand. “Now. What are you doing here?”

“You have been avoiding Overwatch. They would prefer that you did not.” 

“No shit. What do they want?”

“I don’t know much. I only came to collect you.”

“By force?” 

“I would like to remain civil,” he smirks, and Jesse’s pulse jumps, “but yes, if necessary.”

Jesse barks out a rough laugh. “Sure.” 

The grilling continues: Overwatch wants him, thinks Talon might be after him, has work that he’s best suited for, but if he still says no, could he at least please look into this one little thing, as a favor for his old friends? He knows how that goes. One little thing leads to another and another, and then he’ll be de facto Overwatch even if he keeps pretending he’s not. The writing gig and keeping an eye on Talon are already more support than he intended to give.

The stranger answers his questions freely, although he seems bored by the proceedings until Jesse asks, “And how do you fit into all this?”

“I belong to Overwatch now.”

“New recruit, huh? And you’re Genji’s friend.”

“More or less.”

Jesse snorts at the evasion, but he doesn’t miss the dark look that passes briefly over the stranger’s face. There’s some kind of history there — has to be, if the guy’s sporting yakuza ink. “Didn’t think Genji had friends like you.”

“He keeps stranger company, I assure you.”

“And what is it you do, Mister…?”

“Prior to my training as a field agent, I worked primarily as an assassin. Sometimes a bounty hunter. Other times private security.”

It makes sense then, why they’d send this guy. It means he’s good at finding folks who don’t want to be found; Jesse sure as hell didn’t see him coming. He can ignore the lack of name for now. “Outta curiosity, how long did it take you to track me?”

“Nearly a month.” 

Jesse reflects the stranger’s tiny smirk with a wide, proud grin of his own. “Not bad for a man who doesn’t know he’s bein’ followed.”

The other man laughs, only a quick puff of air. “No. Not bad.”

“They tell you what they wanted or just put you on my trail?”

That earns a small shrug. “It seems they worry about you, and that you have a set of skills most of the others don’t.”

Jesse doesn’t feel like getting into all of that. Instead he relaxes, face and body both, until the stranger loosens up too. “Skills that apparently don’t include holding coffee and a gun at the same time,” he jokes. “I lost a perfectly good latte because of you. Boots are all sticky too.”

That catches the man off guard, but he seems amused. “I can buy you another.” 

“Here’s the deal then: you bring me that coffee, I’ll get cleaned up then you tell me about this job they want me to do.” 

He gets a suspicious look for that, but he keeps his smile light “So be it. If this is a trick...”

“Ah, you figured me out. It’s a trick to get a handsome man to buy me coffee.” The stranger doesn’t fully seem to trust the arrangement — smart, really — but he eventually concedes. “Two percent milk if you don’t mind. Double espresso. Get ’em to add some vanilla syrup.” 

Jesse plops down on the bed to yank his boots off, and the stranger tucks his gun away, collapses the bow and shoves it in a bland looking case, then leaves him with a sigh and another warning look. The moment his footsteps are out of earshot, Jesse forces his boots back on and starts packing. 

* * *

Less than a week later, Jesse’s in Reno in a rat trap motel, second guessing his choices because just looking at the bedspread is making his skin itch. He hasn’t even unpacked yet, and there’s a polite knock at the door. He peeks through the peephole and suppresses a laugh. 

On the other side stands Genji’s friend, whose glare has probably turned somebody to stone before. Jesse smiles back. He didn’t realize this guy only comes up to his chin. Now that he’s noticed, he’s sort of impressed by how much intimidation he can radiate if it took Jesse this long to realize they’re not of a height. Not that Jesse’s intimidated, but he suspects most people would be. 

“Fancy seein’ you here.”

“You lied to me.” He says it weirdly like he feels betrayed, as if Jesse owes some stranger a damn thing. He must see Jesse’s confusion, because he volunteers, “I was _told_ you were a man of honor.”

That gets under Jesse’s skin more than he likes. “Whoever told you that, I haven’t seen ’em in years. People change.”

If the stranger has thoughts about his tone, they don’t show on his face. “They also said you’d be stubborn. So some of the rest must still be true.”

“You’re right, I’m stubborn. And I’m not goin’ back. You’re wasting your time.” 

“And if I remind you that you may be in danger?” 

Jesse sighs. “Then it’s just another day ending in Y. Why do you care?”

“Because the job I have been given requires it.” The set of his jaw says he might be as stubborn as Jesse is, but then it goes suddenly softer, and Jesse can’t look away from him. “And because if you are at all as honorable as I have been told, the world may be slightly better off with you in it than not.” 

It comes out so sincere that it resonates in the hollowed out space in Jesse’s chest. He grits his teeth against the feeling, mounts whatever defenses he can find. He knows exactly how mean he sounds when he says, “You don’t know me.”

“True, but—”

“And if you’re gonna offer to get to know me, there’s only one way I’m interested in doin’ that.” He lets himself leer. It’s easy to do. It’s hot outside, and the stranger’s in a t-shirt that strains across his chest and around his biceps, bare arms corded with thick muscle. Jesse wouldn’t mind tracing that tattoo with his tongue, and he lets it all show on his face, as crude about it as he knows how to be. 

The stranger’s cheeks redden, but he looks annoyed enough that it might only be anger. “Being insufferable will not put me off my mission.” 

“Fine.” Jesse shuts the door in his face, locks it, then does one of the things he hates the most: he calls the cops. Tells them there’s a shady looking guy selling drugs out of the motel and harassing other guests. He sort of figures, given the man’s line of work, that he’s about as interested as engaging with the authorities as Jesse is. 

It works, or at least it sends him into hiding long enough that there’s a tiny window of time between the cops leaving and the stranger returning. Jesse’s ready the moment it comes. He’s already pulling out of the parking lot by the time the guy makes it back to his door.

* * *

Jesse manages to outmaneuver him for two and a half weeks this time. He’s in a good mood and proud of himself, even if the only thing he has to go on is the stranger’s word that he’s as good as he says he is. Thinking of him as _the stranger_ or _Genji’s friend_ is getting old, but he’s too annoyed with Genji to ask him about it, and the guy himself was evasive the last time Jesse pried. 

He catches wind of possible Talon activities out near St. Louis, so he’s on the lookout for trouble, armed with a variety of tools for the job. He still doesn’t see his tracker coming until he’s only a few yards away, doing nothing more ominous than walking briskly along the sidewalk. They make eye contact, and Jesse really can’t afford to make a scene in public, so he pauses to let the stranger catch up to him. 

“Good afternoon,” Jesse says with a smile like this meetup was planned all along. “Fine weather we’re havin’.”

It’s overcast and drizzling, colder than it ought to be this time of year. One thick black eyebrow arches, unimpressed. “You think you’re very clever, don’t you?”

“Been giving you trouble, haven’t I?”

“Only because I previously believed you might be an honest man. I was clearly misinformed. Now that I know to approach as if you are a common criminal, this will be much easier.”

Jesse gasps and claps a hand over his heart. “Ouch.”

“You _are_ a criminal.”

“But _common?_ You wound me.”

The stranger’s lips twitch, and this line appears next to his mouth. Then it’s immediately back to the resting bitch face, like it never happened at all. “I assume you intend to run again rather than hear what our mutual friends have to say.”

Jesse’s about to cheerfully agree with him when he realizes what sort of building they’re approaching and he gets a wild hair. “Maybe, but you know what I just remembered?”

“What’s that?”

“You still owe me a coffee.” The guy makes a noise like he’s going to protest, so against all good reason, Jesse grabs him by the arm and pulls him toward the coffee shop. “C’mon, you want me to talk, you know what you have to do.”

He scowls the whole way, but he also lets Jesse drag him along. At least, Jesse assumes he’s _letting_ it happen. He definitely doesn’t look like the sort of man who could be pushed around otherwise. Jesse imagines that someone, somewhere, has lost a hand trying to do the same thing he’s getting away with. Some of the non-reaction might be due to surprise though, because Jesse’s pretty surprised with himself. But it’s the first halfway normal, face-to-face human interaction he’s had in two weeks, and this game is growing on him, and maybe this grouchy stranger is too.

Genji’s buddy reveals his sweet tooth when he gets a banana nut muffin and a chai latte, shoulders hunched around himself like it’s a secret Jesse’s not supposed to hear. A tiny thrill runs through him at the realization that the guy’s going to have to give his name; the excitement sputters out just as fast when Jesse tells the barista his name is Sam. There’s no telling if the name on the stranger’s cup is real or not, but Jesse doesn’t think he looks like a Ken. He glances again at the decidedly-white barista and figures there’s a high chance the man just picked something that was easy to spell. 

Without having to say anything, they agree to take their drinks outside. Talking and walking is a lot easier than sitting in one place to try discussing anything potentially sensitive. Jesse picks the direction and the pace. He takes deliberately long strides so the other man has to walk at a speed inconveniently quick for trying to sip and stroll. The stranger starts to open his mouth, so Jesse speaks first. “That your real name?”

“No.”

“What is, then?”

“You have not earned the right to that information,” he says haughtily, but there’s this curve to his mouth that says he might be teasing. Not for the first time, Jesse catches himself watching him for reasons totally unrelated to his impending escape. 

“And what’s a guy gotta do to earn that privilege?” Jesse smiles very slowly, the way he does when he’s angling to get in somebody’s pants. He’s not convinced it’s going to have any effect, but then he watches the stranger’s gaze dart from Jesse’s mouth to his body and back, and he thinks that’s the most useful information he’s gotten out of this guy so far. 

Not-Ken looks away for a second, then he seems to make up his mind about something. Instead of the rebuke Jesse’s expecting, the guy turns that smirk on him. “I will let you know if you agree to return with me.”

“Let me know your name?”

“No, what you have to do to earn it.”

It catches Jesse off guard enough that he lets out a low laugh. He might be blushing. “That’s a high price you’re askin’ just for a name.”

“I’m sure the payment will be enjoyable too.”

Now he _knows_ he’s blushing. People don’t usually turn his bullshit back around on him, and he certainly wasn’t expecting it to work this time. Struggling to present himself as teasing and totally-not-flustered, he asks, “And how do I know you won’t go back on your word?”

That gets him another raised eyebrow. “Unlike you, I am not a liar.”

“Seems like that’d be a detriment in your line of work.”

“Not as much as you’d think,” he says with a quiet laugh. Then his face grows more serious again. Jesse already sort of misses the flirting. “Since I assume you are going to try to get away again, you should know that you may be being hunted.” He pauses. “By someone other than me.”

Jesse snorts. “If you couldn’t tell, I’m not too concerned.”

“You should be.”

“Aww, honey, you’re worried for me! Not gettin’ attached, are you?”

The look the stranger gives him would chill a lesser man down to the bone. “There is someone killing former Overwatch agents,” he says in a hiss barely louder than a whisper. “Some of whom weren’t even officially acknowledged beneath a certain level of security clearance. Everyone killed so far was alone when they died. Most of them were alone far more often than that. Easy targets.”

“Might’ve noticed I’m not an easy target.”

“You might have noticed that you are not completely untraceable, either.”

Jesse doesn’t want to admit to the chill that settles in at the base of his spine or the whisper at the back of his mind telling him he could find out who it is. He could stop them. It pricks a hole through his good mood, and once again he mutters, “What do you care?”

“This mercenary, Reaper. He does not deserve to win.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, as if he’s bracing for something. “And I promised my— Genji that I would not let you get hurt.”

Jesse chews on that, wondering again who this guy is to Genji. The tattoo would suggest family, maybe, but Genji made it clear long ago that whatever family wasn’t actually deceased was figuratively dead to him. The loyalty could be romantic, but Jesse’s not getting that vibe, and besides, he doesn’t seem like the type to flirt if he’s a taken man. Doesn’t fit with the honor and honesty shtick. Jesse thinks all these things, but what he asks is, “You always this stubborn about keepin’ your promises?”

“Yes. For the right people, especially.” 

“And Genji _wants_ you this far up my ass?”

“Probably not literally.” The tension breaks again with another of Jesse’s flustered laughs. The stranger clears his throat, though his mouth stays curved in that too-appealing hint of a smile. “Not only Genji. They all want you to be safe.”

“You’re talkin’ about a group of people I haven’t seen in _years_ , and they’re suddenly all concerned for my wellbeing?” 

There’s a sneer in his voice that he knows should be off-putting, but the other man only shrugs. “I don’t know your personal histories with them. I only know they were concerned, and Genji asked, and now I am here.” 

Jesse huffs and walks in silence. They make it to a small park, and Jesse sags down onto one of the benches, tired now. “And you’re not gonna leave me alone if I just… promise to keep an eye out?”

“No.” 

“Quit hoverin’.” Jesse pats the seat beside him. “C’mon, I don’t bite.” The stranger sits. He’s warm in contrast with the cold metal bench. He digs his muffin out of its paper bag, elbow nudging at Jesse in a way that should be annoying but isn’t. He scowls even while he eats it, which Jesse finds pretty damn amusing, and even more so when the scowl deepens and turns on him. 

It is weirdly cute, although Jesse thinks somebody’d have to be as screwed up as he is to think so. It almost makes Jesse feel bad for what he’s planning. He’s not sure he’s going to pull it off, because he suspects not-Ken is not the type of man most people can fuck with. But Jesse’s spent years dealing with all manner of scary people, and he even came prepared to deal with some of those folks this time. Plus he at least trusts that this one won’t retaliate in a way that will lead to any major injuries. It’s not in Overwatch’s best interests.

He waits until the man is staring off into the distance, muffin up to his face for another bite, then Jesse moves as fast as he knows how. He grips the closest wrist in his metal hand, and the stranger’s already starting to move, quick and strong, but Jesse has surprise on his side. He zip ties the guy’s wrist to the back of the bench. He’s on his feet a moment later, backing away as quickly as he can. 

Genji’s buddy looks like he can’t decide whether to be surprised or furious or begrudgingly amused, but either way, Jesse doesn’t expect it to hold him for long once the shock wears off. He grins, waves, then breaks into a run. Good thing their stroll brought him within a block of where he parked. 

* * *

Three days is all he gets. This time, he’s in Oklahoma City. He steps out of the bathroom, hair still dripping and a towel around his waist, and there’s his new best friend, sitting beside Jesse’s open laptop. He’s _reading_ the screen. Doesn’t even have the decency to pretend he’s not. 

Jesse strides across the room to snap the thing shut with as much force as he dares. “Do you _mind?”_

“Not at all.” He’s shameless about looking his fill, gaze sweeping down Jesse’s naked torso. The look he gives when he’s finished is a challenge if Jesse’s ever seen one, and it lingers until even Jesse’s ears feel hot. He would say something to protest being treated like a piece of meat, but he sort of started it, and anyway his tongue’s stuck to the roof of his mouth. 

Then the man’s face changes, back to business, and the moment is gone. Jesse doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed. 

“You should get dressed,” the stranger says. “Unless you would like to be hauled into the parking lot naked.” Jesse thinks about arguing, but then he thinks that having clothes on will make his getaway easier, so he does as he’s told. In the meantime, the stranger politely averts his gaze and taps one finger against Jesse’s laptop. “I never would have expected this from you.”

“What?” Jesse huffs as he yanks an undershirt over his head. 

“The writing.” Jesse doesn’t answer, only glares at him, trying to look as mean as possible while fiddling with the buttons of his plaid shirt. “I read a dossier on you before I came looking. I insisted on it. And I interviewed your colleagues—”

 _“Former_ colleagues.”

“Nobody mentioned it. I’m surprised.”

Jesse doesn’t try to pretend it’s not his. There aren’t many reasons most folks would have an open word processor file if it’s not their own writing. “A man’s gotta have hobbies,” Jesse finally mutters. 

“You’re not bad.”

“That’s a surprise too, huh?”

“It is. Not many marks surprise me.”

Jesse snorts. “If you’re so good at your job, how come they got you wastin’ all your time sniffing after me? Gotta be a better use of your talents.”

“If you have opinions, you could always contribute to our strategy meetings.”

“Very cute.” Jesse pauses, only now realizing that there are two to-go cups on the table. He points to the nearest. “What’s that?”

“A latte? Two percent milk, double espresso, vanilla syrup.” 

“So it’s for me.”

“Of course. You did not get to finish either of the others I bought you.”

Jesse doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know if he should be flattered. Probably makes sense that someone like this guy has a good memory for detail. Jesse doesn’t think he should drink it though. Who knows what the guy did to it, especially if he’s threatening to drag Jesse out of here by force. 

“Thanks, Akihito, but I’m cutting back on caffeine.” The stranger’s brow wrinkles in confusion. He starts to repeat the name slowly, so Jesse figures that one is wrong. “Akira? Aoki?” Jesse picks up his phone from the nightstand and pulls up the webpage he bookmarked three days ago. “Arata? Asahi?” 

None of the names get the reaction he’s looking for. Instead he gets a bemused smile. “Ah. I see.”

“Asuka, Atsushi, Ayumu…”

“If this is your method, it will take you a while.”

“Not an A-name, then. Great. One letter down, twenty-five to go. Or you could tell me.”

“I told you that if—”

“Botan?”

“—if you—” 

“Bunta?” 

“—if you return with me—”

“Chihiro?”

He watches as the stranger clamps his jaw shut and his face grows increasingly exasperated. Jesse makes it all the way to Daiki when the man finally rises to his feet and snaps, “I have a name for you.”

He draws closer, and Jesse would be lying if he said it doesn’t send something hot spiking through him. “Lay it on me,” Jesse says with a grin he kind of hopes will get more of whatever this is. 

“Gabriel Reyes.”

Everything, even inside Jesse’s head, comes to a screeching halt. “What about him?”

“Your superior officer, right? _Former_ superior officer.” He says this with a trace of a sneer, and Jesse briefly considers hitting him. “Yesterday we confirmed that he is the mercenary known as Reaper.”

“Gabe’s dead. He died in Geneva.”

“He is alive, and he is hunting former agents.”

“He was a good man.”

“Apparently not.” There’s a barb in every syllable. He’s pushing Jesse’s buttons now that he’s finally got the upper hand.

“You’re full of it,” Jesse says, exhaustion hitting him hard and sudden. His eyes and throat are both burning.

“I have not lied to you yet.” He’s terse about it, but he watches Jesse’s face and his own grows softer. He has to know that this hit below the belt, and now he might be regretting it. “You are a likely target,” he says more gently, but what’s done is done.

“Get out.”

“If you need a moment—”

“No. Get _out.”_

This time, the stranger leaves on his own.


	2. Chapter 2

#

[Jesse]: I’m gonna need you to call off your hound.

[Genji]: what

[Jesse]: This jackass you have tailing me. Who is he?

[Genji]: so you’ve met

[Jesse]: Not an answer. 

[Genji]: I know

Genji doesn’t clarify any further through text, but he does take the call when Jesse grows impatient. “What’s this bullshit about Gabe?”

Genji makes a sound with his tongue. “It isn’t bullshit. I am sorry.”

Jesse’s tempted to hang up on him. Shove him out just like he shoved out Genji’s friend. Then he’s tempted to grill him: how do they know it’s Gabe, who are their sources, what’s the evidence? Genji wouldn’t confirm it if he didn’t fully believe though, and Jesse suspects the interrogation would really be some sideways punishment Genji doesn’t entirely deserve. Besides, he’s not in the headspace to go digging through that muck just yet. So he circles back to the other issue. “Tell me about this guy you sent.”

“We all sent him.”

“But you’re the one who vouched for him, and you’re the one he mentions by name.”

“Yes. I asked him to go, but it was on behalf of all of us.”

“And?”

“And what?” 

The false innocence grates on Jesse’s nerves. “Who _is_ he?”

“Someone who owes me a great deal.”

“So, what? You say jump, he asks how high?”

“I… suppose.” Genji sounds weirdly troubled, then he sighs, with a familiar hydraulic hiss as he vents the air. “It is complicated.”

Jesse doesn’t get anything more out of him, and the call doesn’t last much longer. His mind races, trying to figure what the hell Genji could’ve done that makes this guy owe him so much. Even a life debt doesn’t usually come with this level of persistence. Maybe he just takes pride in his job, and Jesse’s been a more challenging quarry than usual. 

* * *

The next time he sees the stranger — not-Akihito-through-Daiki — it’s while he’s doing his damned laundry. He rented a house for this one, mostly because he got blood on some things and figures that won’t go over well at the local laundromat. 

The living room has a nice, big window facing the road, so Jesse sees him pull up. He has the nerve to block Jesse’s car in, parking so closely the bumpers are almost touching. There’s no space left to maneuver the other vehicle. Jesse knew he should’ve parked in the street. 

“You’re an asshole,” Jesse announces as the door opens. He’s folding his whites, and he shakes the wrinkles out of his undershirt so hard that it snaps in the air, just to emphasize his point. 

The stranger looks amused. “Is that all?” 

“You want a lecture?”

“No.” He shifts his weight. “I should apologize for the way I told you.”

“No, you shouldn’t. I’ve been a dick to you too.” Jesse puts the folded shirt on his small stack, then he starts on the next. “Don’t try and argue. I was the one doing it. I know.”

“I am still sorry.” 

Jesse grunts to acknowledge it, but he’s not especially in the mood to discuss that any further. “You really want to make good, you can do it by gettin’ out of my hair.” 

The man laughs quietly, and then he does something weird as hell: he sits down next to Jesse on the couch, and he picks up a shirt to fold, smirking at Jesse like he’s doing something truly devious by helping him with the laundry. It’s cute, which is annoying, and cuter because he watches Jesse and makes sure to fold the same way, and more annoying because the sight of his scarred hands smoothing the wrinkles out of Jesse’s clothing is doing stupid things to Jesse’s insides. 

When the last shirt is folded, Jesse packs them all into his bag, then he settles back on the couch. “Got another load in the dryer. You givin’ me time to finish that, or is the owner gonna come back to a bunch of free pants?”

“You may finish your laundry.”

“You gonna iron my underwear too?”

The stranger shrugs, unbothered. “Will it speed things along?” 

Jesse laughs, then he changes the subject, turning to face him. “So what’s the plan here?” He gestures as he talks, and he thinks the growing amusement on the guy’s face is obnoxiously charming. “You know I’m not just gonna go along with it. So. The plan? Bash me over the head? Put me in handcuffs?”

“Would you like me to put you in handcuffs?” He asks it perfectly evenly, but his smile is viciously smug when Jesse fumbles his next words. 

He recovers well enough, he thinks, mostly because he wants to see if he can make the guy squirm too. “Guess it depends. There’s a lot of things I’d let you do in the right context.” There’s no reaction, so Jesse keeps pushing. He moves closer, drops his voice lower, gets a hand on the other man’s knee. The stranger doesn’t shy away. “That the kinda thing you’re into? Might be enough to convince me to stick around, if so.” 

Jesse’s closed a lot of the distance between them, crowding him against the arm of the couch, and the guy’s not backing down. His pupils are huge and eyes narrowed, and his breath’s coming faster as Jesse’s hand inches up his thigh. 

Then something jingles quietly next to Jesse’s ear. It’s the set of car keys he was aiming for, dangling from one of the stranger’s fingers for the split second before he snaps his fist closed around them. 

Caught out, Jesse sighs and backs away, flopping back onto his side of the couch. “I already told you you’re an asshole, right?”

The guy looks way too fucking pleased when he says, “You did.” 

It’s frustrating, but Jesse thinks he can wait him out. His new shadow might be a stubborn ass, but even he’s going to have to take a leak or something eventually. In the meantime, Jesse turns on the holo set and talks through the sitcom he finds, because he’s hoping to find out what really gets on this guy’s nerves. 

Instead, he joins in, mocking the bad jokes. When that episode’s over, he tells Jesse to join him in the kitchen. Genji’s friend pokes around until he finds some microwave popcorn that he still somehow manages to burn. They pick their way around the burned bits, but only a few pieces are edible. It mostly only makes Jesse crave better popcorn and feel thirsty as hell. He’s not sure he trusts the tap water here, but there’s some juice in the fridge. 

The man even stays on his heels when he goes to fetch his laundry, although he offers to help again. Jesse stares at his juice glass while he replays things in his head, folds his jeans while he mentally catalogues all the tools at his disposal, and he knows what he has to do. 

It’s difficult with the guy breathing down his neck, but it’s not impossible. He digs through his bag under the guise of arranging his folded jeans inside it. There’s still a small pile of shirts left, so there’s time. Next he makes another bag of popcorn — unburned, because Jesse knows how to work a damn microwave — and refills their drinks. Then he resumes folding while he waits. 

“Oh,” the man says after several minutes. He looks mildly dazed and deeply pissed off. 

He grips Jesse’s shoulder and makes to stand, wobbling on the way up. It takes almost no effort to push him so he’s sitting on the couch again. “Might wanna take it easy, partner.”

 _“You_ are definitely the asshole.” The words are coming out in a mumble already, and the hand on Jesse’s shoulder is weakening. His glass is completely empty from chasing all that salty popcorn. Probably for the best, because Jesse really wasn’t sure about the dosage and erred on the side of not enough. 

Jesse can’t hide his snicker. “You wanna pretend you didn’t do that to my coffee last time, I can pretend to believe you.”

Jesse hums to himself while he finishes up his laundry and packs his things. He tosses a blanket over his sleeping friend. He even makes sure to bring the guy’s stuff in from his car, right before Jesse steals it.

* * *

Less than forty-eight hours later, Jesse’s leaving another motel in the middle of the night. He shoves his bag into the backseat, shuts the door, then something slams into him from behind. He’s sandwiched between the car and his attacker, arm wrenched behind his back. They’ve got a grip on the metal arm most people wouldn’t be able to have, and they were smart enough to immobilize that one first. 

Metal clinks together as one cuff snaps closed around his prosthetic arm, and he laughs, a little breathless since he’s still mashed against the car. “Hello, darlin’.” He tries and fails to turn his head to see him, mostly because if it’s anybody else, he’s thinking of breaking their nose. “That is you, right?”

“There is a reason I usually prefer to kill my marks.” The familiar gravelly voice makes Jesse laugh again, even as hearing it close to his ear makes his heart beat faster. The other cuff closes around Jesse’s other wrist, and the pressure on his arms and shoulders lets up. 

“More trouble than I’m worth?” Jesse asks, grinning wide. The guy doesn’t answer that. He grips Jesse’s arm just above the prosthetic, and he yanks him backward in order to get the car door open. He is not gentle in trying to wrestle Jesse into the car, and it’s kind of hot but also terrifying that all Jesse’s thrashing is doing fuckall to slow him down. “Wait! Somethin’ you might wanna consider first.”

He has Jesse shoved halfway into the back of the car, one foot on the floor and one still on the asphalt. He’s got a solid grip on Jesse’s hot neck, and he holds him in that awkward position. Jesse’s back protests the whole affair, and he’s starting to sweat and maybe pant, and the most the other guy does is give a long, beleaguered sigh. “What is it?”

“My laptop’s still in the room.”

“Overwatch will buy you a new one.”

“You forgotten what I do? It’s got a whole lot of shit on it nobody else needs to see. Not smart to leave it.”

They linger there for another moment while his assailant considers what to do: leave Jesse unattended in the car, or take him with. Jesse figures he knows what the guy’s decided when he hears a string of angry Japanese. Jesse’s not exactly fluent, but he’s spent enough time around Genji that he knows the rant is at least eighty percent curse words. He can’t help the laugh that escapes as the guy drags him back out of the car and frog marches him to the room. 

Outside the door, the guy growls near his ear, and Jesse feels himself go hot all over. “Where is your keycard?”

Jesse grins. “In my pocket.”

“Which _one?”_

“I forget.” The other man lets out a laugh that sounds more frustrated than anything else. Jesse risks a smirk over his shoulder, even though he can barely see him in his periphery. “You have my permission to frisk me.”

He thinks for a second the guy’s going to back down or rough him up some more, but this one’s just full of surprises tonight. Wordlessly, he reaches one hand around and up, skimming along Jesse’s ribs to reach the breast pocket on Jesse’s shirt. His hand moves a lot slower than your typical frisking calls for, and as it slides across to the one on the other side, Jesse can’t decide if he regrets the challenge or if it’s the best idea he’s had in weeks. 

When his hand moves again, it’s just as slow, and now it leaves a trail of tingling skin in its wake. “I thought you were only needling me with your flirting,” the guy says, sounding much more amused than before. “Now I am not so sure.” His fingers slip into the back pocket of Jesse’s jeans. That one’s empty too, but they take their time, knead into his flesh.

Jesse holds as still as he can, but he doesn’t think his reaction is much of a secret. The stranger shifts his weight and does the same to the other pocket. “Is this how I get you to shut up?” the guy asks. His hand slides back across Jesse’s tailbone, over his ass and around his hip. It dips into the front pocket now, and Jesse’s jeans feel way too tight. 

“If I’d known keepin’ my mouth shut would get me this, I would’ve tried it sooner. But most guys prefer my mouth open.” The hand in Jesse’s pocket slides back out, then the guy shifts his weight to change the way he’s holding Jesse, so he can use his other hand to reach into the final pocket. Jesse resists the urge to press into the touch, but he must do _something,_ because there’s a chuckle by his ear that makes his nerves spark. “Maybe once you get that keycard I can show you why.”

He draws Jesse’s hips back into him, and if Jesse’s not mistaken, he can feel proof the guy’s not totally unaffected either. “I already told you. Not until you return to Overwatch. But until then…” He finally slips the keycard free of Jesse’s pocket. He puts a few inches of space between them, pats Jesse on the hip, and tightens his grip on one handcuffed arm. 

It doesn’t take long to gather Jesse’s things and switch the guy’s stuff over into the same car. He shoves Jesse into the backseat and doesn’t uncuff him. It’s kind of sweet that he takes the time to buckle Jesse in though, and it means more of his hands all over, even if this time he’s not making a production out of it. He makes it all the way to the next town over, but even an international assassin can’t control traffic. Between Deadlock and Blackwatch, Jesse’s spent a long time perfecting his escape technique on several varieties of handcuffs. He waits for a red light and a big enough crowd, then he’s gone.

* * *

The next time they meet, Jesse actually sees him coming for once, and by the time he draws close, Jesse’s peeling out of the parking lot and grinning in the face of one very rude gesture. After that he tries a different set of cuffs, and Jesse returns the favor by cuffing him to his own steering wheel. Then he takes a page out of Jesse’s book and zip ties him, but getting out of those was part of his Blackwatch training too, and the prosthetic arm is more helpful than you’d think. There’s another two times in public, one in which Jesse incites a bar fight to cover his getaway and another that requires the aid of a particularly excitable bachelorette party. Then there’s the one that ends with Jesse nearly falling from a fire escape, which he’d prefer not to repeat. 

Several times, the stranger aims for brute force again, and those would probably be his most successful attempts if Jesse’s reaction to getting pushed around didn’t stress the guy out. He’s above board every time — as above board as you can be while trying to violently kidnap a man, anyway — but Jesse can’t stop thinking about the time with the keycard, and his body has a mind of its own. He was surprised the first time it happened too, and maybe embarrassed, but if it’s a choice between rejoining Overwatch or inconvenient erections and introspection about a heretofore undiscovered kink, Jesse will happily take the boners. He’s also pretty sure it’s the guy doing the manhandling and not the manhandling itself, or at least some combination of the two; if it was just about getting pushed around, this wouldn’t be a new discovery by a long shot. 

Even when the guy gets aggressive it’s clear he holds himself back. It’s still not in his best interests to rough Jesse up too badly. Not if he’s trying to get Jesse to go back to Overwatch, where they’re all hoping he’ll choose to stay upon arrival — and Jesse’s reflected enough on the question that he knows he probably _will,_ which is why he can’t afford to go — but that means not leaving Jesse permanently impaired or pissing him off so much he refuses to play nice once they get there. 

He’s tried the carrot and the stick and several creative in-betweens, and Jesse’s still refusing to cooperate. And yet, barring the time he drove off, every incident involves a few insults and a lot of flirting. Maybe sometimes some flirting disguised as insults. 

Jesse doesn’t learn his name, but he does learn other things — that the guy eats way too much junk for the physique he has, that for all his smarts and seeming self-control, he has a reckless streak a mile wide, that the people he’s happiest to have killed are the kind who were cruel and violent in their personal lives. Despite being the asshole who’s trying to make Jesse go back to Overwatch, Jesse _likes_ him, probably more than he should. It’s like he was built to pique Jesse’s interest, which should be suspicious, but the tiny bursts of sincerity tell Jesse that either the personality is as genuine as it seems, or he’s a better actor than anyone Jesse’s ever met. Sometimes he wonders if Genji wasn’t just thinking about the guy’s skill set when he sent him after Jesse, but instead how malleable Jesse might be in the face of, well, that _face._ And those arms. And a lot of things, really. 

Jesse’s pretty attached to the game. It’s a very specific kind of fun, and he justifies it to himself by thinking it keeps him on his toes. Keeps his skills sharp. 

When he can be honest with himself, he can admit it’s also because he’s attached to his competitor. Jesse smiles more often when they’re together, even if the smile _is_ usually because he’s up to no good. He thinks the feeling might be mutual, because Jesse earns a reluctant laugh at least once every time. Plus the guy has offered _things,_ although they’re always conditional, pending their arrival in Gibraltar. And as he’s said a dozen times now, between the two of them, he’s not the liar. There’s no reason to believe he wouldn’t make good on the offers, if only Jesse would do the one thing he promised himself he’d never do again. 

* * *

Jesse makes the mistake of trying to read up on some of these dead Overwatch agents. That tiny voice in the back of his head has never really gone away, and if it really is Gabe doing it, there are few people in the world better qualified than Jesse to figure him out and stop him. Hell, Jesse might be the only one left alive who can. The thought leaves him feeling more cynical than usual, angry at nothing and everything.

He’s already partway through a bottle, eager to numb it all and shut his conscience up, when his new favorite distraction finally shows up. There’s a scratching sound at his door that he only hears because he’s been listening out for it, hoping this’ll be one of those days. He gets up and yanks the thing open. 

“Come on,” he says. The stranger tucks away the funny device he was using to get past the magnetic lock, and he follows Jesse in, a thick line between his scrunched up eyebrows. “You want some?” Jesse shakes the bottle so that the liquid inside sloshes loudly. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah? And why’s that?”

“You should keep moving. You were too easy to find this time. I doubt anyone else looking for you cares about your best interests.” 

“That what you call almost breaking my nose? Lookin’ out for my best interests?” 

“That would not have happened if you had cooperated. It certainly wasn’t intentional.” He’s right; it was a stray elbow that got him in the middle of a very stupid scuffle, not like the guy threw a punch. Jesse grins at the memory and dumps too much bourbon into one of the motel’s disposable cups, making a show out of displaying that the cup is definitely empty beforehand, then drinking straight from the bottle, because the guy probably won’t trust any drink Jesse hands him otherwise. “You’ve been sloppy. Why?”

“Maybe I wanted to be found.” He shoves the cup at the stranger, who has no choice but to take it if he doesn’t want bourbon to end up all over his clothes. 

“Why?” he asks again.

“To say I’m sorry you’re stuck following me around.” The stranger tries and fails to cover his surprise by taking a very tiny sip, and Jesse barrels on. “You just have a job to do, and here I am makin’ it harder. Not goin’ back though. They ought to let you off the hook.” 

“Hm.” He takes another sip, and Jesse doesn’t bother to pretend he’s not watching the slip of tongue that chases the lingering bourbon on his lip. 

“Tomorrow, you’re gonna call up O-dub and tell ’em you’re done chasing my stubborn ass. Go back and do something productive with your time.”

The stranger’s face is a war between amusement and concern. “Do you think you have been my only job this whole time?”

That stops Jesse short. “I… hadn’t really thought about it.”

“I hope you are relieved to know that if you were the only thing that required my attention, you would see me far more often.”

“Huh.” Jesse stares, and he finds that he _is_ strangely relieved by that, as well as more impressed. “And here I thought I was special.” The guy snorts, having settled on amusement. “You give all your marks the treatment you’ve given me?”

“I kill most of them. You have gotten off easy.”

Jesse smirks and doesn’t go for the joke. Instead he says, “Well, either way. Truce tonight. We’re drinkin’.”

The stubborn bastard sets his cup down instead. “No. We should both be leaving.” 

_“No._ I said we’re drinkin’.”

“And if I offer to get very, very drunk with you when we have arrived in Gibraltar?” He doesn’t sound like his heart’s really in it, or like he believes it will work. More like he has to try, however futile it is.

“I’m still not coming with you, but you can stay and have a drink here. Or watch my back while I drink, if you’re gonna be hard-headed about it.”

_“Why?”_

“Because you’re not half bad when you’re not all business or shoving mean stuff in my face? Because you’re the only real company I’ve had in months?” Jesse laughs, dry and bitter, and conveniently ignores that the stranger’s been offering him a solution to that this whole time, because that solution comes with too many strings attached. “Because it’s not like I can pick anybody up if I know you might come bargin’ in any second.” Both of the man’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, then he looks away. “Didn’t think of that, did you?”

“It did not occur to me, no. But I assure you I would not enter uninvited if I thought you were… with company.” 

Jesse snorts and takes another swig. He catches his lip between his teeth, eyeing the stranger. Then he makes up his mind, sets the bottle down and takes a step forward. “And what if I said you _were_ invited? That I wasn’t interested in somebody random?” He knows his voice shifted, and he watches the way the stranger’s shoulders stiffen in response. The guy doesn’t move though, stands his ground even as Jesse moves closer. “What if you’re the kinda company I’m after?”

“Is this only hypothetical?” His voice is huskier too, and there’s color rising in his cheeks. 

“You know it’s not.” Jesse feels like maybe this was inevitable, and he thinks the other guy feels it too. “Stick around ’til mornin’ and I might even let you get me across the state line before I go.” They’re standing about as close as two people can get without touching. The stranger looks spellbound, lips parted with no air moving between them. “So what do you say?”

Anticipation coils hot and sickly sweet in his chest, and he swears the stranger sways forward, swears he feels the ghost of a shaky breath on his lips, before the other man jolts and takes a step back, rattling the table. It’s the first clumsy thing Jesse’s seen him do. “No,” he says. “No, you wouldn’t if...” 

He’s a lot more spooked than Jesse thought he’d be, especially after all the flirting. Jesse’s not prepared for how much he hates this rejection, an icy weight settling into his stomach. “If what?”

“Hanzo.” The word feels like an itch Jesse can’t scratch. Like something sitting at the tip of his tongue. The stranger must see it, because he clears his throat and says, “My name.” He takes a deep breath. “Shimada Hanzo.” 

There are a dozen possible reactions, but the only one Jesse manages is a rough laugh that surprises him so much that he laughs again, higher this time. He backs off though, because what the hell else is he supposed to do? When he finally finds words, they still don’t do him any good. “Just my luck, ain’t it?”

Hanzo doesn’t look hurt or angry or anything like that. He only looks resigned. It’s the second time he leaves of his own volition. 

* * *

[Jesse]: Since when are you in contact with your brother?

[Genji]: since a few months ago

[Jesse]: Why didn’t you tell me?

[Genji]: would it have mattered

[Jesse]: You at least could have told me that’s who you sent after me. Why hide it?

[Genji]: I didn’t know what you would do

Jesse’s not as surprised as he should be; he thinks he suspected long before this, but he was having too much fun to go diving down that rabbit hole. He doesn’t know any better than Genji what he wants to do with the info, much less what he _will_ do. On the one hand, he works hard to believe in second chances, and the guy’s been nothing but honest with him — even in hiding his name. He could have come up with a fake one, and instead he was upfront about keeping that to himself. On the other hand, it’s hard to think about cuddling up to the person who tried to kill Jesse’s friend. It feels like a betrayal, even if Genji’s working toward some kind of reconciliation now. 

Hanzo was right not to let Jesse kiss him without telling him first, but that’s one more piece of conflicting information. The thing is, now that it’s all out in the open, he can’t reconcile the two Hanzos in his head. There’s the one who put Genji in that damn suit, scarred him up and left him dependent on machinery just to breathe. Then there’s the stubborn ass who’s been shadowing him, who runs hot and cold, flirtatious then too serious, cynical and sarcastic one minute then wide-eyed and sincere the next, who cares about honor and honesty and keeping Jesse alive. The one who’s supposed to be on a mission to drag Jesse to Overwatch, yet left him his space twice now instead of pressing the issue. 

“Well, shit,” Jesse mutters, rubbing at his chest like that will banish the warm sensation. 

* * *

Hanzo doesn’t break into his hotel room again. Jesse should be pleased, but he doesn’t know how he actually feels about it. It’s not like Hanzo disappears entirely though. Jesse swears he catches sight of somebody shadowing him on more than one occasion, but it never comes with the jolt of adrenaline that says he should be worried. He wonders if Hanzo’s letting himself be noticed or if Jesse’s starting to learn how he works.

It should probably creep him out, but there’s something weirdly comforting about it. It’s familiar. Something constant in his otherwise unstable existence. 

He’s in Houston when the feeling of being followed stops being comforting. He has just collected on a bounty and is ready to get some much-needed sleep. It’s late enough that the bars have been closed for nearly an hour, the sidewalks mostly vacant. Something creeps up his spine. There’s clammy cold across his skin even in the warm Texas night. He tries to speed up his walk without being too obvious about it, inching his hand subtly closer to the gun tucked under his jacket. 

He’s not far from his stolen car, but there’s also not much in the way of cover in the dark parking lot. He can’t risk looking behind and giving away that he knows he’s being tailed, so he sticks close to the other cars, trying to catch a reflection in any of their windows or mirrors. 

He hears the creak of old leather and a strange whooshing sound, then someone steps out of the shadows by the nearest building. It’s definitely not Hanzo. Peacekeeper is in Jesse’s hand before he gives it a conscious thought. “Don’t know what you’re after, partner, but it’s best you move along.”

The laugh that greets him is dramatic, the sort of cruel cackle that would be at home in a cheesy old movie, but it still sends a shiver across Jesse’s nerves. “Don’t you recognize an old friend?” 

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

The skull mask vibrates when Reaper laughs again. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.” He whips his coat back theatrically and draws two oversized shotguns. 

Only years of training keep Jesse’s hand from shaking. He’d know those guns anywhere; it’s the final piece of confirmation he needs. “What do you want?”

“You, working for me again.”

“I heard about what you’ve been up to. No thanks.”

“The money’s good. You’d like the job.”

“I also like bein’ a free agent.” 

“Is that all?” He paces, and Jesse keeps his gun trained on him. “Not still loyal to Overwatch, are you? After everything they did?” He gestures at Jesse’s prosthetic arm with one gun, then sweeps it outward as if to encompass something much bigger. “After all the people they left to die?”

As far as pushing his buttons goes, even the Gabe he knew could have gone harder, but it squirms under Jesse’s skin anyway. “If you’ve been alive all this time, you abandoned me too.”

 _“You_ left _me._ I dragged your sorry ass out of the desert and gave you a real life. I gave you a purpose. I _made_ you. And when you disappeared, I didn’t hunt you down and lock you up. I let you go. If you’re a ‘free agent’, it’s because of me.” His voice doesn’t get any louder, yet somehow every word _seethes_ with anger, bubbling with all the toxic waste that’s been building up inside Gabe for years.

Jesse can feel his anger bubbling too, and he grits his teeth against the writhing in his stomach and all the words he could say if he let himself be baited. “I don’t care. I’m not helpin’ you murder good people.”

“So be it.” Reaper shrugs, and it’s such a Gabe move that Jesse’s jaw aches from clenching it. “Never did appreciate everything I gave you.” The world moves in slow motion as he brings the shotguns to bear. 

There’s no way Jesse can do what he has to do, but even as he has the thought, he does exactly what he thinks he can’t: he squeezes the trigger. Reaper disappears in a cloud of smoke, then he rematerializes at point blank range. Jesse feels the barrel of a shotgun dig into his stomach. 

Then Reaper grunts, jerks, and collapses in a heap, guns clattering to the ground beside him. He doesn’t move again. 

Hanzo stands just behind Reaper’s fallen body, looking nearly as stunned as Jesse feels. There’s no way it was that easy. There’s no way a ghost from Jesse’s past showed up just to die so unceremoniously. Hanzo’s hands are on him, dragging him away, and it’s not until Jesse is shoved down into the passenger seat of his own car that he realizes Hanzo’s bow is still in his case. Jesse might be in shock, but he thinks he would’ve heard a gunshot. He thinks he would’ve noticed another weapon or a pool of blood.

They make a stop at Jesse’s motel, and Hanzo leaves Jesse’s room with his things, only to disappear into a room a few doors down and re-emerge with another duffel. He meets Jesse’s eye with a wry smile, then stuffs everything into the backseat and gets back behind the wheel. 

It’s not until they’ve been on the road a good twenty minutes that Jesse finally asks, “The hell did you do to him?”

“I put him to sleep.” Hanzo glances sideways at him and sighs. “That shot was meant for you, but I had to improvise.”

“You were gonna _tranquilize_ me?”

“You do not get to be offended. You weren’t cooperating!” 

Jesse laughs and sinks down into his seat, exhausted and mind racing at the same time. It hasn’t sunk in yet that he saw Gabe, that he _shot at_ Gabe, that Gabe was going to kill him. He knows it hasn’t. It’s all intellectual right now. All his processing power is directed toward his knees almost touching the dashboard, the faint smell of pine air freshener, the realization that he needs a shower and maybe a snack — the way Hanzo looks in profile, lit intermittently by the rhythmic flash of the streetlights they pass.

He can’t sleep, mind too restless, and he doesn’t know what Hanzo’s going to try if Jesse doesn’t keep tabs on him. So he watches as the city gives way to the interstate, and he finally picks up that the road signs declare they’re heading west. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense if Hanzo’s planning to haul his ass to Europe. Why add hours to the flight by driving the opposite direction?

With nothing better to do, Jesse asks, “Where are we going?”

Hanzo hesitates, eyes fixed on the road. “Away from Reaper,” he says after a moment. He sounds tired too, voice scratchy and dry. 

“This the same direction you would’ve gone if you’d put _me_ to sleep?”

Hanzo smirks, and he doesn’t really answer the question. “I cannot believe I wasted that on him. You have no idea what it took to get even one of those.”

“So tell me.”

Hanzo keeps them both awake by explaining his relationship with Shrike and the deal he had to strike to convince her to give him a sleep dart. It involves a Moroccan tea set and several promises Jesse doesn’t have the context for. Hanzo seems simultaneously amused and annoyed by the whole affair, and he admits quietly to finding her intimidating. He says it’s not a feeling he is used to. Jesse’s never met Shrike, but he’s heard of her before, and he wonders privately what kind of person Hanzo could respect that much.

The conversation drifts, aimless talking just to keep awake. Hanzo tells him about a woman, a grifter he turned in for bounty between this and the last time they saw each other, and it’s both easy and flattering to believe Hanzo’s damn good at his job when Jesse’s not the one giving him trouble. Jesse tells him about his latest blog post, mostly trying to cover Overwatch’s ass after their antics nearly destroyed an ancient monument in Greece. It prompts Hanzo to ask the thing he’s had to have wondered for weeks: “Why don’t you want to work for Overwatch again? You are practically in the same business already.”

Jesse chews his lip, but eventually he settles on the truth. “I gave enough of my life to them, and you know what it got me? A new arm and a wanted poster.” He laughs roughly, humorlessly. “Not just me either. Humiliated Reinhardt. Forced him into early retirement and a pension half the size it should’ve been. Angie’s a goddamn genius, and they destroyed her career. Blackballed by the same folks who should be kissin’ her ass, all because Overwatch made promises they couldn’t keep.”

“Ms. Oxton seems to appreciate their intervention.”

“Lena wouldn’t have needed intervention if they hadn’t rushed that prototype.” Hanzo hums thoughtfully, and he looks like he’s at least taking it in. “They abandoned Amélie Lacroix, left her to suffer God-knows-what at Talon’s hands. I could go on. A lot of good people died for no damn reason too. You try watching three of your heroes die.” Another bitter laugh escapes him. “Or two, I guess. And I don’t know what Gabe’s deal is. He wasn’t… like _that_ before. But even if the method’s screwed up, I can’t blame him if he’s got a bone to pick with Overwatch.” 

“These people whose lives Overwatch supposedly ruined. They came back anyway. Perhaps they would not entirely agree with you, or they believe the cause is still worth it. And what of Winston? Dr. Zhou? The Lindholms?” The steering wheel creaks as Hanzo’s knuckles go white, and his voice sounds like he’s got the same grip on his self control. “My brother?”

“That’s—” Jesse doesn’t have a good answer for that one, so he huffs and scratches the thinning denim at his knee. “Alright, Genji’s better off, but do you really think they gave him all that for free? Angie did what she did because she’s a good person, but it took a lot of resources. Overwatch had to make sure they got their money’s worth.”

Hanzo gives a tight nod. He probably doesn’t see it Jesse’s way, but Hanzo doesn’t seem to be judging him either, and it feels good to have said it all out loud. Even knowing Reaper is somewhere behind them, Jesse feels lighter than he has in a long time. 

“So why are you stickin’ it out?”

“Genji.” It’s a one-word answer with a thousand meanings. There’s an awkward beat before Hanzo looks at him sideways and says hoarsely, “You may ask.”

Jesse chews on that for a second. “Do you want me to ask?”

Hanzo’s brow draws down, lips parting and closing wordlessly. “I hadn’t considered. I only thought you would, eventually.” He breathes in and out, ragged. “I think… yes.”

“Okay. Why’d you do it?”

His voice is tight but weirdly distant, his knuckles white and his breathing rigidly controlled. He doesn’t make excuses. It’s just a series of actions and the rationale behind them, the orders he took and his tunnel vision for _duty._ Even stripped to bare bones, the story’s not easy to sit with. When it’s over, he looks like a man awaiting his sentence. 

Consoling him feels wrong, and seems like the kind of falsehood Hanzo probably wouldn’t forgive the way he’s forgiven all Jesse’s stupid little lies. Punishing him seems worse; Jesse thinks he’s been an unwitting participant in Hanzo’s penance all along. More than that, Jesse doesn’t _want_ to punish him. “Okay,” Jesse says after a moment. “Thanks for… sharing that.” He’s not sure there is a right thing to say here, but Hanzo seems satisfied, shoulders sagging with what might be relief. 

Several minutes pass before Jesse thinks it’s safe — maybe necessary — to change the subject. “Why’d you wanna know about me and Overwatch anyway?” He tries a teasing grin. “Adding to my psych profile so I’m easier to grab next time?”

Hanzo doesn’t seem totally at ease, but he does give a quiet snort, so that’s progress. “No. I was only curious. And I think—” He pauses, visibly conflicted. “Last time, you called a truce. I think that is warranted again in this case, don’t you?”

“Ooh, you wanna play hooky now? Got a sudden urge to run away together?” Jesse’s teasing, but the instant it leaves his mouth the idea is far too appealing for comfort. He wonders what could be, if they did exactly that. 

Hanzo rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, and the conversation fades to a comfortable silence, interspersed with idle chatter and observations about the billboards they pass. They hit San Antonio with the sun rising behind them, and Hanzo ditches the car then forces them to walk a ways with their stuff. Smart. Jesse’s going to need a new ride, one that Reaper hasn’t seen. Hanzo takes him to a much nicer hotel than Jesse’s been staying in lately, but it’s filled to capacity and too early to check in even when he offers to pay as if they stayed last night too. 

They’re dragging their feet, exhausted, but Hanzo treats him at the café on the corner. He still remembers Jesse’s order and everything, and this time he simply gets two of them in the largest size the shop sells, because they’re going to need it to survive until check-in. He gets bagels too, and these mini quiches that are probably the closest thing to genuinely healthy food here, if only because there’s some spinach in them. He slumps when they finally sit down, and Jesse feels himself do the same. 

“Thank you,” Jesse says. It’s about more than just breakfast, and he hopes Hanzo knows it. They sit in silence even after they’ve eaten, sipping too-sweet coffee and biding their time. 

Jesse thinks about asking him why. Why he joined Overwatch in the first place. Why he’s sticking to this stupid mission after Jesse’s been such a pain. Why he saved Jesse. Why he’s not taking advantage of the opportunity to take Jesse back. In the end, he settles for watching Hanzo stare out the window at the folks passing by, the sidewalk slowly filling up with them as the day really begins. 

Hanzo looks like hell, blue-gray shadows under his eyes, skin washed out by bright lighting and fatigue. His lips are chapped. It’s clearly been a few days since he tidied up his facial hair. Jesse thinks he can see gray hairs hiding in the lengthening undercut. Jesse sees it all, and he knows what Hanzo has done, and Jesse still thinks he’s sort of beautiful. 

Eventually Hanzo gets a call from the hotel, and Jesse has to stare at the lid of his coffee cup like he didn’t spend the last several minutes examining every line of Hanzo’s face. A couple checked out early, so the hotel’s got a room all cleaned up and ready to go. 

When they get to the room, Hanzo nudges him toward the bed and insists that he sleep. “I will guard us,” he says, then he turns on the holo set, flips to some kind of nature documentary with the volume at a murmur. Jesse would argue, but he has food in his belly and a soft bed right there. He doesn’t know what Hanzo’s going to do later, but Jesse believes his call for a truce. Here and now, Jesse feels safer than he has in a while. The feeling settles into his bones and brings lethargy with it. It’s hard not to be selfish.

It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep, but it does take a while for it to stick. He dozes here and there, wakes up wrapped around a pillow and then again with the pillow shoved halfway off the bed. Once, he thinks he feels fingers in his hair. 

When he finally wakes for good, it’s with the soul deep knowledge that it’s been several hours. The curtains are closed, but he’d be willing to bet it’s at least late afternoon. He truly slept and slept well. His head is also in Hanzo’s lap. 

Hanzo himself is staring at the holo screen, blinking slowly and heavily and way too often. He’s slow to react, too, when Jesse finally sits up. 

“Hey,” Jesse says quietly, and Hanzo looks at him with eyes that want to close. “It’s alright. Get some sleep.” 

Hanzo huffs, so tired it’s not even the laugh it’s clearly meant to be. “And wake up to find you’ve run off again?” 

“Bet I could push you over right now and you wouldn’t even get up.” He does just that, but gently, and Hanzo, who usually looks so immovable, definitely sways until his back hits the headboard. “How are you gonna drag me off like this?” Hanzo hums, but he doesn’t seem mollified, so Jesse adds, “I’m gonna shower and order some room service on your tab.” He grins, and Hanzo gives him a wan smile in return. It fades to surprise when Jesse touches his cheek. This feels dangerous somehow, more dangerous than trying to sleep with him even, but the look he’s giving Jesse is too soft to give it up now. “You said we had a truce, right? And you’re not the liar here. So I’m not goin’ anywhere as long as I’m eating for free.” It doesn’t come out as playfully as he intends.

Hanzo stares back, half-dazed, while Jesse gently brushes the sharp line of his cheekbone. Jesse thinks it would be so easy to kiss him right now, and as he thinks it, his gaze and thumb both move to trace the shape of Hanzo’s mouth. Hanzo lets out a shaky breath, then he swallows and nods. “Order something for me too. And wake me when it arrives.”

It snaps Jesse out of it, and his heart thudding in his chest makes him feel sort of jumpy. He’s quick to put space between them, milling around the room to release the sudden nervous energy. It’s easiest to turn it into a joke. “Fancy hotel room? Buying me breakfast _and_ dinner? Gotta be careful, darlin’, or a man might start jumpin’ to conclusions.” 

Hanzo laughs with quiet exasperation. “Conclude what you like, so long as you stay,” he says. He’s looking down at his hands, cheeks still flushed from before. It looks like he might say more. And God, does Jesse want to know what it is, but he also thinks they might both be better off not knowing. Whatever Hanzo’s thinking, he keeps it to himself in the end. 

Jesse digs some fresh clothes and toiletries out of his bag to take with him into the bathroom. While he brushes his teeth, he teases Hanzo from around the brush and his mouthful of toothpaste, uncaring that half the words are garbled. “You see they got lobster on this menu? Might get that. Maybe filet mignon. I mean, after being such a pain in my ass, I think you owe me.” He spits and rinses out his mouth and the sink both. “You a red or white wine kinda guy?” Then he pokes his head back out of the bathroom. “Or should I just get the most expensive, since you’re buyin’?” 

Hanzo can’t answer. He’s already out cold. 

Jesse pulls the covers tight around him. He wants to touch Hanzo’s face or hair again. He wants to crawl back into bed and curl up together; he thinks the safe feeling might stick if he does. He wants to shake Hanzo awake to ask why he called the truce — and why he traveled away from Gibraltar instead of toward it. 

He thinks, if Hanzo woke up right now to ask him, he might actually agree to go back. It scares the shit out of him. 

He takes his shower, and he orders room service, but he puts it on his own card. No lobster or steak or wine, either. All he asks for is a bottle of water to go with a sandwich and a salad, figuring Hanzo should have options to choose from. Then he gathers up his things and does what he does best: he runs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to [mataglap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap) for the prompt, and to [YourAverageJoke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/YourAverageJoke), [bloomingcnidarians](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/bloomingcnidarians), and [ChillieBean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/ChillieBean) for the hand-holding at various times throughout this chapter.
> 
> I updated the tags, so please check those out before you proceed!

#

He’s in Vegas this time. The hotel’s expensive enough that it reminds him of when he last saw Hanzo, but he does his best to ignore that fact while he straightens his bow tie. Target’s a high roller, so Jesse has to look the part too. He pulls on a pair of black gloves, careful with the prosthetic, and he takes another look in the mirror. He’s got a nice haircut for the first time in a while. He pushes at the strands so they don’t look quite so _done_ though. He ran a job in a sister casino only a year ago, so in a monumental sacrifice to his work, he’s even clipped the beard all the way down to a glorified five o’clock shadow. He’s never been able to pull off the truly refined look, but he can come damn close, and this is it. 

He thinks he looks pretty good. He wonders if Hanzo would agree, then he pushes that thought aside with a frustrated grunt. He needs to focus. At the last minute, he decides the full tux might be trying too hard. He ditches the bow tie and undoes the buttons at his throat. 

His instinct is proven right the minute he sets foot into the high limit room. Some men are in tuxedos, but there are plenty more in sport coats, and Jesse’s left somewhere comfortably in between. 

Standing at the craps table is Deborah Hofler. She’s closing in on fifty, and she has a thing for younger men, hence tonight’s efforts. She’s also got a good head for business, a team of lawyers to cover all manner of sins, and a few million dollars to throw around however she pleases. She’s almost definitely hanging onto some kind of financial intel for Talon, and she’s... already got company. 

If thinking about Hanzo summoned him, it wouldn’t have been almost a month since the last time they saw each other, but still, there’s a superstitious part of Jesse that wonders. The time in between has clearly done Hanzo a lot of good. He looks well rested and well groomed, his black jacket cut just right to emphasize his stupid big shoulders and his stupid trim waist. Jesse wants nothing more than to forget the job and push him down onto one of these tables and ruin both their suits. 

His heart is suddenly racing, skin humming like he just took three shots of espresso. He feels a thousand pounds lighter. He’s practically fucking giddy, and no amount of shock or embarrassment at that discovery can fully quash the feeling. 

Plenty of the reaction is nerves too, though. Hanzo catches his eye with an expression so mild it has to be intentional, and Jesse only realizes he’s been grinning when it withers in response to that look. Right now Hanzo is inscrutable. No telling what he’s thinking, or what his dispassionate face might mean. 

Deborah runs a possessive hand along Hanzo’s arm, and Jesse has to hide his gritted teeth behind a much more controlled smile. He forces Hanzo’s hand by approaching like they have definitely met before. “Well, I’ll be damned. Haven’t seen you in a minute!”

Hanzo’s tight-lipped smile says plenty. “Ah, Deborah, this is my friend…”

“James Morgan,” Jesse fills in, hand out to shake hers, thumb lingering across her knuckles as she pulls away slowly. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine.” She looks downright delighted, and Jesse can’t blame her. He worked hard to look like this, and Hanzo looks so good in a suit that, even suspecting Hanzo might not want him here, Jesse’s all but vibrating where he stands. He wonders what Deborah thinks is going on here. 

He has never seen Hanzo interact with anyone other than service workers, so this is fascinating. There’s an ease to his interactions with the cocktail servers that says he’s comfortable in this scene, but he is stiff and formal when he speaks to anyone else. It fits with what Jesse knows about him — both with what Genji has told him over the years and with the research he’s been pretending not to do on the side lately. Hanzo grew up with actual servants, rubbing elbows with politicians and business people and other wealthy gangsters, but he doesn’t really _enjoy_ any of it. His flirting isn’t the worst Jesse’s ever seen, but it doesn’t come naturally the way it seemed to when it was just the two of them. He’s lucky he’s as good looking as he is or she might have lost interest already. 

Jesse, on the other hand, has always known how to turn on the charm. It’s easy to figure out how Deborah wants to be spoken to, and easy to fill that role. His luck at the table doesn’t hurt either. He’s got her eating out of his hand in less than an hour. More importantly, he’s got her drinking faster than is wise. He orders the same awful martini she does and carefully switches their glasses whenever she makes some progress on hers. For every pair of drinks they order, Jesse gets a few sips from his at most. The rest goes to her. 

He came into this thinking they might have to compete if they couldn’t work together, but Hanzo isn’t stepping up to either challenge. Every time Jesse gets Deborah’s head to turn his way again, Hanzo seems to withdraw further. Jesse even pitches a few easy jokes his way, but he doesn’t think he’s the only one who can see Hanzo’s not in the mood for it. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He’s shocked by how good it feels to see Hanzo again, by the buzz under his skin that comes from standing anywhere in his proximity. Hanzo’s disinterest feels perfectly calculated to cause him as much distress as possible, and Jesse still wants to ask him where he’s been and what he’s doing here and whether he’d like to get coffee again or make out some time. There’s also a job to worry about. Hard as it is, he does his best to keep his attention on that. 

Somewhere during Deborah’s third — well, “third” — martini, she laughs and sloshes her drink. Jesse glances past her, thinking he and Hanzo are going to share a look over her drunkenness, but Hanzo has disappeared. Every cell in Jesse’s body tells him to go looking for him, but Deborah practically flings herself into his arms. “How would _you_ like to see my _room?”_ she asks, pawing at him more than is strictly necessary. 

“Been waitin’ for you to ask me that all night.” The smile comes automatically. She actually boops his nose, then she giggles like someone a third of her age. 

Jesse waits with her purse while she prepares to leave, and he tries looking over everyone’s head for Hanzo. Wherever he went, he’s not out on the floor. Then Deborah’s clinging to his arm, and he lets her pull him along, quick to steady her when she teeters on her high heels. It’s the least he can do after encouraging her to drink so much so fast. 

“This’s it,” she slurs once they arrive at her suite. It’s a hell of a lot bigger than Jesse’s single room. “Whew, those were strong. Were yours’s strong as mine?” 

“Definitely. You know, Deb—”

“Ugh, nobody calls me that.” 

“I think we should get you to bed.”

“What d’you think I’m trying to do?” She giggles again and pulls at his wrist, wobbling backwards toward the bedroom. He’s not quite holding her up, and he’s starting to feel genuinely guilty about the amount of alcohol he gave her.

She almost knocks him over trying to yank him down to the bed with her, and her mouth drags along his jaw. She pouts when he pulls away. She’s a handful, and she’s pushy, and every time he gets one questing hand under control she’s trying to grope him with the other, but he eventually manages to wrestle her under the duvet. “How about you get comfortable while I get us something to drink? Water, maybe?”

He doesn’t know how he gets her to agree, really, but she eventually lets go of him long enough that he can pull away. He leaves the bedroom door cracked, and he takes a deep breath, straightening out his rumpled jacket. It doesn’t take long at all before he hears her light snoring. Harried as he feels, she’s not the worst drunk he’s had to put to bed by a long shot. He counts to twenty to make sure the snoring doesn’t stop before he creeps toward the small office. 

When he pushes the door open, there’s already someone there, illuminated by Deb’s laptop screen. Jesse tenses, but it is instantly replaced by a wave of relief. “I was wonderin’ where you ran off to.” 

Hanzo barely glances up. “I thought it would be efficient,” he says blandly. “It’s a good thing. It took some time to break through. I assume we’re here for the same thing. I will be finished soon.” His tone is as stiff and professional as it was with any of the strangers downstairs. 

“Where have you been?” Jesse can’t stop himself from asking. 

“Now is not the time.”

“Then stick around ’til it is the time.”

He doesn’t have much choice anyway; the desk is in a corner and Jesse’s in his way. Hanzo looks like he’s contemplating climbing over the furniture while Jesse makes his own copy of her files. Most of them are financial, as suspected, and they don’t mean much to him, but any information can become good information. Before they leave, Jesse checks that Deborah’s still asleep and gently rolls her onto her side. Then he sets a glass of water on the nightstand and a trash can by the bed. He even digs through her purse on a hunch, and he comes up with a bottle of headache medicine to set beside the water. 

He panics for a moment when he thinks Hanzo didn’t wait for him, but he finds him hovering at the door with a pinched expression, looking like he still might run any minute. Jesse waits until they’re in the hallway before he says, “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

That gets him a sidelong look, Hanzo’s gaze lingering in the vicinity of Jesse’s earlobe. “I do have other duties.”

Jesse has so many questions about that and other things, but Hanzo’s acting weird and it leaves him at a loss. “That all it is?” It’s as casual as he can make it, which is to say, not very casual at all. 

“I would have expected you to be happy to be left alone.” Hanzo’s tone is so cold that it bites. He’s not looking at Jesse any more.

There’s no easy way to explain that Jesse knows he’s the one who made a game out of leaving but now he wants Hanzo to stay. Harder still to say _why._ They’re getting on the blessedly-empty elevator when he asks, “Are you mad at me?” 

“No,” Hanzo practically snarls. 

Some other time, Jesse would absolutely laugh. As it is now, he only holds his hands up, placating. “Then come have a drink with me. Alcohol, coffee, doesn’t matter to me.” 

“What would be the point?” 

Doesn’t matter how much Jesse deserves it, that stings. He tries powering through. “Oh, you know, catch up, shoot the shit, maybe slip you something while you’re not looking just for old time’s sake.” Hanzo shoots him a look that makes his insides shrivel up. “That part was a joke.”

“I’m aware.”

“The rest — catching up, buying you a drink — that was serious.”

“Does this ‘catching up’ include your return to Overwatch so that I may finish the job I was assigned?” When Jesse doesn’t answer, Hanzo scoffs. “As expected.” The elevator dings. “You have lipstick on your collar,” he says as he steps off. 

It’s not his floor, but Jesse’s not letting _that_ go. He shoves his foot between the closing doors so they bounce back open, then he follows. He feels stupid even asking, so he tries to make it sound like another joke. “Aw, honey, don’t tell me you’re _jealous.”_

The irritated growl in Hanzo’s throat says teasing was probably the wrong move. “No.” He stops at a door and pulls out a completely legitimate keycard. He shoves the door open, and as soon as they’re in, he beelines for the duffel bag sitting on the bed. 

A knot of panic starts to form when Jesse realizes he’s going to pack, and he’s going to leave. The only thing he can do is keep Hanzo talking. “Then what’s wrong?”

“I have simply realized that your… interpersonal skill is no more than that. A tool to accomplish a goal.” 

“I thought you weren’t mad.” 

“Not at _you_. I read your files. I have followed you for months.” He closes his bag with so much force Jesse wonders how the poor zipper survives the abuse. “I knew the situation, but I still thought—” He makes a frustrated noise. “It no longer matters what I thought.”

“It matters to me,” Jesse says with all the sincerity he can muster. 

“Yes, I’m sure this has all been very fun for you.” Hanzo checks the gun in his side holster, then he slings his bag over one shoulder and bow case over the other. 

It feels like Jesse’s ribs are trying to cave in. “Thought you were havin’ fun too.”

“I _was_ ,” Hanzo says pointedly, “and now I’m not.” 

They’re standing toe-to-toe now in the entryway to the small suite. Jesse’s in his way, and he knows he should move, but he thinks that if he does that, he’s never going to see Hanzo again. “So what, first I can’t get rid of you, now you wanna get rid of me?” It’s meant to be another joke, but the words catch in his throat.

“I am tired of being made a fool and tired of wasting my time. You can console yourself knowing you won.” He tries to go around, but Jesse stays in the way. The way his lip curls back makes every hair on Jesse’s arm stand up, and he suddenly remembers that somewhere inside this man is the one who tried to murder his own brother. “Move,” he growls.

His face is a snarl and he’s radiating fury, but Jesse knows what lies underneath the anger. He knows it’s his fault. He’s been flirting and charming Hanzo to disarm him all this time. Tonight, Hanzo got a front row seat to Jesse using the same song and dance on a mark. 

“You’re not… crazy or stupid or any of that. You didn’t imagine anything. Last time was different. _Everything’s_ different when it’s you.”

Hanzo still has this stubborn set to his jaw, not an ounce of his anger pacified. “That might be worse, if it’s true.”

Jesse doesn’t have a good response, because Hanzo’s not wrong. “I missed you,” he says instead, plaintive and hating it. 

“You _missed_ having someone who came back no matter what you did, because you have _also_ confused the situation, and because you are lonely and afraid and refuse to accept the most obvious solution.”

Hanzo’s words feel like they’re coiling around him, squeezing the air from his lungs. He can’t even bring himself to argue. There’s one more thing he has to know for certain though, in case he never gets another chance to ask, or maybe because he’s eager to punish himself. “That last time. The truce. You never said it was temporary. You said I should stay and— You weren’t gonna make me go back, were you?”

Hanzo looks down, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, and when he looks back up, his face is harder than before. _“Move.”_ Jesse doesn’t think he’ll get more answer than that, but he doesn’t need it. 

He’s gathering the nerve to let him go when Hanzo shoves him, viciously, violently to the side and into the bathroom. It’s shocking enough that Jesse reels, barely catching himself on the door jamb in time to see something rush past. Three gunshots ring in his ears. The disorienting sound bounces off tile and glass, and a body staggers and falls. It lands on its back in the entryway, right where Jesse was standing before Hanzo saved his damn life. Again. 

He doesn’t have time to read into it. Two more come through the doorway, hindered by the corpse. Jesse yanks the second into his bathroom and bashes their head against the sink counter. Even with the familiar red helmet, the blow leaves them dazed long enough for him to find a gap in their body armor with Peacekeeper’s muzzle. 

There’s another at the door. Jesse hurtles out of the bathroom to slam them into the wall. He does it a few times for good measure before he wrestles their gun away from limp fingers. No reason to waste ammo; he kills this one with their own weapon. 

Nobody else enters, so he turns to help Hanzo, who has one dead, one bleeding out, and the last in a nasty chokehold. He thinks there isn’t much for him to do until he sees the bloody one reaching a shaking hand for their gun. With a growl that startles even him, Jesse’s on them in an instant, sending the pistol skidding across the carpet. He grips their helmeted face in his metal hand to hold them still. Dense resin spiderwebs beneath the pressure. By the time he puts a bullet in their neck, there are dents in the helmet the shape of his fingertips. 

After the body’s gone still, he checks on Hanzo, who is rising from a crouch over his own handiwork. He’s not sweating or panting, barely even has a flush in his cheeks, and he’s still in that suit, and Jesse thinks it’s probably screwed up how badly he wants to suck Hanzo off right there, dead bodies be damned. Hanzo’s gaze flicks from the corpse Jesse just made and back to his face, and Jesse feels it like a punch to the gut. Hanzo’s eyes are dark, glittering as the faint color in his cheeks begins to deepen. The fight might not have left him out of breath, but it’s coming visibly quicker now. It’s hard for Jesse to stop the smile slowly spreading across his face, and harder not to watch Hanzo’s every minute reaction. 

The whole thing shatters when there’s a sound neither of them makes, and Hanzo tackles him to the floor. They land with a thud as a bullet hits the carpet nearby, then the body where Jesse was, then the nightstand near both their heads. 

Pressure throbs behind Jesse’s eye, the room growing hotter as one more Talon grunt rounds the corner to get a better angle on them. Hanzo starts to move, to scramble back to his feet no doubt, but Jesse grips him tightly, neck and chin straining as he rises just enough to steady his gun. Then he shoots. One bullet might not be enough to break through the helmet, but four at once certainly do the trick. 

Nobody else follows this time. There are seven dead bodies and a smoking hole in the floor, carpet fluff and concrete dust gently settling around it. Everything has gone still, silent beyond the ringing and rushing in Jesse’s ears. He still has a death grip on the back of Hanzo’s suit. It’s probably torn to hell now, but Hanzo is a warm weight on top of him, and he’s not inclined to let go. Hanzo stares, breathing harshly, his eyes wide. 

The anger and frustration from before seems to melt away in that instant, replaced by this other tension. Hanzo’s mouth is so close that all Jesse would have to do is shift his head. Anticipation shivers in the breaths they share. 

Then Hanzo snaps out of it. Jesse’s stunned enough that he can’t even react before Hanzo is well beyond his grasp, tugging his hopelessly wrinkled clothing back into place. At least he reaches a hand down to help Jesse to his feet. “We need to leave before—”

“Security,” Jesse finishes, and Hanzo nods brusquely. That logic makes sense, and it soothes his stung ego, although the balm can’t cover everything. It’s been a long, long time since he’s gotten caught up so much that he’s forgotten his surroundings like that. It’s embarrassing, but it’s exhilarating too, and God, Hanzo makes him so stupid. 

Luckily for them both, Hanzo doesn’t appear to be suffering from the same affliction. He gathers his scattered things then pulls Jesse along at a brisk walk, down the hallway toward the stairs. The stairwell door is already closing firmly when the commotion starts behind them. 

Jesse’s dress shoes pinch as they descend, moving as fast as they can without threatening to spill down the stairs. “Shit’s a lot more fun when we’re on the same team, ain’t it?” Jesse asks with a grin.

“Imagine that.” The sharp, bitter tone cuts through Jesse’s adrenaline high. In hindsight, maybe it was the wrong choice of words for the present company. Jesse shuts his mouth so hard his teeth click painfully.

They’re a few flights down when Jesse grabs Hanzo’s arm and pulls him to a stop. “Wait,” he pants. “We goin’ out the parking garage or ground floor?”

“It’s probably best not to be seen leaving together.”

“Yeah,” Jesse agrees half-heartedly. “Yeah, that’s smart.” He clears his throat, then yanks his wallet from his pocket, rifling through to find the small envelope that houses a spare keycard, emblazoned with a hotel logo. He thrusts the thing at Hanzo. “I already got a backup room. Hotel’s about two-and-a-half blocks west of here. Room 314. Can get cleaned up, catch your breath, let me... whatever. Whatever you want.” Hanzo eyes the card with some skepticism, his hand hovering in the air. “Please.”

There’s a clang high above them, then the sounds of several footsteps echo through the stairwell. Hanzo takes the card, then he pushes Jesse gently toward the door. “Go.”

On the way out, he checks himself in a mirror in the hallway. There’s still Deborah’s dark lipstick on his collar, but he’s surprisingly free of blood spatter at first glance. There are a few spots on his suit and gloves, but the thick black material hides it all well enough as long as nobody stops him to get a good look. His heart is in his throat the whole time, but he makes it out of the place just fine.

When he gets to the backup hotel room, the lights are still off. It was a mistake to come straight here; Hanzo is smart enough he’s probably circling around, making sure he’s not being followed. This is what Jesse tells himself while he washes up, changes clothes, organizes his gun kit, smokes on the balcony. He finally lets the worry set in after nearly two hours. Maybe Hanzo is just late, but there are two other possibilities, and both of them suck the air from his lungs in their own special ways.

Genji picks up on the second ring. Jesse doesn’t bother with the hellos. “Heard from your brother recently?”

“Why?”

“Got in, uh, some hot water together a couple hours ago. Just makin’ sure he got out okay.”

“Oh. Yes. He sent his report a few minutes ago.”

“Good, good. That’s… good.” Jesse clears his throat, wincing at how stupid he sounds. He can only lie to himself for so long, but somehow the wavering thread of hope is still there. “Any idea where he is?” At Genji’s silence, he does his best to push while staying casual. “Got a job that could use an extra pair of hands.”

“He works for Overwatch, not for you.” Genji sounds annoyed, maybe even protective. Jesse wonders how much he knows.

“Right, gotcha, but can you just humor me?”

There’s this clicking sound that Genji sometimes makes when he’s feeling peevish. “Fine. He has already left Vegas.” It’s more or less what Jesse expects by now, and it’s better news than if Hanzo got caught, but it still hits like a ton of bricks. He doesn’t know how long he spends staring at his knees before Genji asks, “McCree?”

“Why’d you send him?” He knows his voice is tight, knows Genji will hear it and figure something’s up — if he didn’t before this — and he doesn’t care, because he needs the answer.

“You already know we needed someone to find you.”

“No, I mean, why _him?”_ He’s not even sure what he expects to accomplish by asking. Not like Genji’s going to say he sent Hanzo to get under Jesse’s skin or mess with his head. That’s not Genji’s brand of devious, and he’s probably not interested in playing matchmaker for any reason. 

Genji hums thoughtfully. He has never been the most empathetic person Jesse’s known, but he does try, especially lately. His voice goes softer, patient in a way he never was back when they first met. “He is the best person we had for the job, and he is very determined. In general, and about… well, you should ask him that. And we thought— _I_ thought it might be better for us both if we built in some distance.” 

Jesse laughs. He knows the sound is harsh, knows Genji didn’t ask for any of this even as he says, “So you sent him out alone on missions an ocean away, on a hunt you knew would take him forever. You sure reconciliation is what you’re after?” 

Genji makes that clicking sound again. “I did not ask for your opinion.”

“I didn’t give you one.” Jesse knows he sounds just as testy as Genji does, and he doesn’t care.

“It was clear enough.” Genji’s vents wheeze through the receiver, and there’s a bite to his voice when he says, “I am not going to argue with you. Whatever this is about, I don’t think I am the person you are angry with.”

It knocks the wind right out of Jesse’s sails. He scratches a hand over his face, missing the beard already. “Yeah, alright. This was a bad idea. If you talk to your brother again, could you pass something on for me?” He gets nothing but an expectant silence. “Just tell him... message received.”

* * *

He writes. He hunts bad guys. He tries not to think about Hanzo. He excels at the first two, and he’s very bad at the last.

He hides his head in his work, tries to stay too busy to think. Sometimes it’s easy; there’s plenty to keep him occupied. Making a mess of his own head doesn’t change his deadlines or suddenly cause criminals to turn over a new leaf. 

But at night in the mirror, he can see his beard growing back in, and that reminds him that he cut it short, which makes him think of that night in Vegas and everything Hanzo said. Jesse has the whole thing memorized by now, refined to perfect, vicious clarity in his head. He revisits it whenever he’s in the mood for some self-flagellation, which is often. He thinks about San Antonio a lot too, and about Hanzo telling him to stay. He tries telling himself he didn’t understand, that he just didn’t hear what Hanzo was really saying, but he can’t get the story to stick. He saw Hanzo’s face. He knows what almost happened, and he knows how he felt, and he knows that Hanzo felt it too. He still ran.

Sometimes he’s angry instead. Angry at Hanzo for being too stubborn to let him apologize. Angry that Hanzo gave up on him, that he didn’t believe Jesse meant everything he said in Vegas, or that the things Jesse said didn’t matter. Angry that Hanzo stood him up, even if he never actually agreed to come. Angry that Hanzo was _right._

More often, he’s angry with himself. He’s smart enough to know who the real problem is, to know that being mad at Hanzo is nothing but self-defense. He’s the one who let Hanzo think San Antonio was different — because it _was_ different — got Hanzo to trust him then broke it right away. He could have apologized in Vegas. Maybe he said it all wrong. Maybe there was a way to make Hanzo believe him, trust him again, _something_ that would change how it turned out. 

Sometimes he’s angriest that he cares at all. It’s not like they know each other well. He was Hanzo’s _job,_ and that’s not exactly a solid foundation for anything else. Maybe he should’ve just slept with Hanzo and gotten it out of his system. Curiosity has to be half the appeal. Sex would have scratched most of the itch. Probably.

It’s not like they actually had anything, but he’s grieving the loss of potential, all the _almosts_ they had, the same way he would if it was a bad breakup. It’s futile to try to quantify the hurt or make rules about what emotions he is or isn’t allowed to have, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like an idiot. It doesn’t stop him from constructing elaborate _what if_ scenarios.

It doesn’t stop the world from constantly reminding him, either. He can’t drink his usual coffee, so he gets used to the taste of soy and hazelnut. Sometimes he catches something in his periphery, and he’s so _sure_ it’s going to be Hanzo, but it’s always something else. He’ll hear a knock at his hotel door, and every time, his heart trips and stutters until the person on the other side announces that they’re housekeeping. He’s tempted to work out the tangle of feelings by picking up a stranger to distract him for the night, but he’s stopped by the thought that maybe this will be the night Hanzo changes his mind and picks up his mission again. 

He needs to get a fucking grip.

He doesn’t really hear from anyone he knows for a while. The closest he gets is when he swipes a few pieces of proprietary tech off some Helix agents as payment for Sombra. She hands him intel on Reaper that teaches him absolutely nothing he didn’t already find out for himself. It makes the back of his neck prickle. None of the things it implies are good. They don’t talk about it, but she also clearly knows he’s suspicious. She tries to pacify him — or manipulate him, more likely — with a freebie that tells him she once again knows way more than she should: it’s grainy street cam footage of Hanzo just yesterday, alive and whole and doing God-knows-what only one state over. 

It’s good to know he’s okay, but it also dredges up the thousands of feelings Jesse’s been trying to cram down. He thanks her stiffly and doesn’t even have the heart to tell her off properly for her bullshit. She’s smart enough to know he’s not having it, anyway; she doesn’t try trading favors again. When he’s feeling especially self-loathing, he uses that to torture himself too. Even the most mercenary person he knows has her loyalties, and Jesse doesn’t have what it takes to buy her back into his corner. He knows he’s taken the pity party too far when he tries to make a metaphor out of losing his shadiest contact.

He can’t even get away from Hanzo in his dreams, because his head’s so full of guilt and regret and anger that his subconscious keeps it going even while he’s asleep. The only real reprieve is when the dreams latch onto his attraction instead. There are a few variants, but Jesse’s favorite is the one with Hanzo back in that tailored suit he wore in Vegas, hands fisting helplessly into Jesse’s hair while Jesse blows him. The serotonin dump is a nice break in the monotony, but afterward, the fantasy makes the frustration of his reality that much more acute.

A few weeks go by in a cycle of work and moping and pretending he’s not moping — then feeling ashamed and stupid for both the moping and the pretending — before he finally picks up Reaper’s trail. The feelings it summons are conflicted, but there’s a clarity of purpose there too. There is a solution, and Jesse knows what it is and knows he’s capable of handling it. Painful as it is, that makes it a lot more appealing to focus on than any of his other problems.

* * *

Reaper moves like he has somewhere to be, and he’s constantly checking over his shoulder even though Jesse’s sure he hasn’t been noticed. That tracks with what he remembers; Gabe was getting that way toward the end, reasonable suspicion succumbing to outright paranoia. Suspicion made Gabe a good strategist, but it didn’t always make for fine company. He could be arrogant too, and it could cloud his judgment on what he actually _should_ be paranoid about. Jesse can imagine Gabe easily enough: certain a vague, nebulous concept of someone might be watching his every move, and simultaneously certain he could handle anything they tried. Jesse’s memory should serve him well in deciding how careful he really has to be. 

Naturally, given his luck these days, Jesse’s wrong. 

He rounds the next corner to find Reaper’s disappeared. Leather flaps nearby, and Jesse turns in time to sidestep a punch, mostly by accident. He can stay close, run the risk Reaper can kick his ass — Gabe always was better at CQC, and better at doing than teaching — or put some space between them, risk Reaper getting hands on his shotguns before Jesse can draw Peacekeeper. In the end, he doesn’t get to choose. 

Some of Talon’s foot soldiers come racing their way like this was all planned. Ambushed and outplayed, Jesse figures he should’ve seen it coming. What he knows about Gabe is years out of date, and Reaper _was_ awfully easy to follow. 

He staggers back as quickly as he can. Deadeye’s always been kind enough to give him more time than should exist. It’s enough time to draw his gun, at least. He probably can’t stop them all, but he’ll take as many with him as he can. 

Reaper dematerializes again, smoke billowing toward Jesse. Then there’s a sound like a freight train, a sudden gale screaming in his ears, and Jesse’s vision explodes with _blue._ The wind whips around him, his body tingling like it’s covered in static. It smells like rain and ozone and blood.

The shock throws off his Deadeye, but through the gleaming, swirling blue, he sees red helmeted mercenaries drop to their knees. It takes time for his brain to catch up, to properly name what it is he’s seeing. Dragons. It’s as if thinking the word helps him focus, really _see_ their long, scaled bodies and the massive, fanged mouths. 

He’s seen Genji’s dragon before, seen it leap from his back to ride his sword arm, swift and deadly to match Genji’s already uncanny speed. That one scared the hell out of him the first time he saw it too, but that experience was nothing like this, caught in the middle with his knees turning to rubber. It feels like it lasts forever, and it’s over sooner than he expects. 

He’s the only one still standing. Reaper is simply gone, but the Talon agents lie motionless, and no one comes rushing out of cover to attack again. Belatedly, Jesse staggers backward, a hand twisted in his serape like an elderly woman clutching her pearls. There’s a scraping sound behind him, and he turns, spooked, to find Hanzo watching him. 

Jesse’s heart really can’t go any faster, but it tries its damnedest. His head crowds with all the things he should say, and his throat clenches around them. Unable to focus on any one thing, the only word to escape is a hoarse, “Christ.”

Hanzo’s head tilts, his face carefully neutral. “That is not my name. Did you forget so soon?”

It’s so dry that Jesse almost buys it. Then he sort of wants to buy it because the joke’s so bad. _Then_ he surrenders to the laugh, though it’s more like a cough with his nerves as shot as they are. As far as Hanzo’s smirks go, this one seems almost tentative, but it makes a not-wholly-unpleasant ache settle into Jesse’s chest. 

“Those things are… Christ,” Jesse says, then he finally releases his death grip on the serape and shakily holsters his gun. “What are you doing here?” His throat is tight again, this time with the stranglehold he’s using to keep his hopes from getting high. 

Hanzo gestures past him, toward the Talon agents. “Following a lead.”

“Oh.” He misses the anger, however misplaced. At least with that, he wouldn’t be shifting his weight awkwardly, scrambling to rub any two brain cells together. 

“Are you well? I know the dragons can be—”

“Yeah. Or I will be. I’ve seen Genji’s before. Yours are just… sorta overwhelming?” He fishes for anything to say to make this less weird. 

“You weren’t afraid?”

“Scared shitless, but I still know the rules. They wouldn’t hurt me unless you— Well. I knew you liked me.” 

Jesse tries a grin, but Hanzo’s face twists up, quickly shutting down any hope Jesse had that this might go better than the last time. “It only means I don’t consider you an enemy,” he says icily. Hanzo takes a deep breath, and when it’s finished his expression is milder. “We need to leave.” Jesse knows it’s the right call, but if they move, Hanzo’s going to disappear again. When Hanzo turns away with a wince, Jesse figures that’s it. They’re done here. With one bad joke, he screwed up another opportunity, if it ever existed. 

Hanzo glances back to where Jesse’s still rooted to the spot. “Are you coming?”

Jesse does not run. He only walks very quickly, and only because they need to get a move on before Talon sends reinforcements. 

* * *

Hanzo’s motel room is rougher than the last, more like Jesse’s usual, and for similar reasons: cleaner to get in and out when you don’t have to go through the lobby to get to your room. Raises less attention if you show up covered in dust and blood. Hanzo doesn’t look like he much enjoys the prospect of Jesse in his room, which is upsetting no matter how fair it is. 

Still, Jesse is _here._ The hope he’s been trying to quash wants him to make something of it, but Hanzo puts a damper on that when he tells Jesse he needs something from him. “I suppose I could do it myself, but it would be easier if you did it,” Hanzo adds defensively, clearly out of practice asking others for help. 

Hanzo strips out of his jacket with a visible flinch. He did seem like he was favoring one side while he walked, and now Jesse gets to see why. There’s blood soaking through the gray t-shirt beneath. 

“Shit,” Jesse mutters.

“Indeed.” Hanzo starts to peel the t-shirt up, grimacing when he reaches fabric that’s adhered to his skin by tacky, drying blood. Jesse balls his hand into a fist to stop it from trying to shake. That’s not going to help anybody. With a glance up at Jesse’s face, Hanzo says, “I believe it may look worse than it is.”

Jesse grunts, unsure he trusts either that assessment or his voice, and he forces himself to stand still while Hanzo reveals the wound, prodding at the uninjured flesh around it. It’s a gash in his side, just above his hip, and it’s been stitched before, though now those are torn. Hanzo directs him to a first aid kit in his bag, which Jesse tosses on the bed to dig through. 

Hanzo’s lucky there are even painkillers left. The kit is sparse and fully out of most of the basics. It’s been used often. Jesse does the slow clench and unclench of his hands again. “No biotics?” Hanzo looks almost sheepish, which is a look that doesn’t suit his face at all. Jesse sighs. “Did you have any in here to _begin_ with?” 

Jesse keeps his own kit well stocked, even if sometimes it means stealing it. He doesn’t have the luxury of getting slowed down by an injury. Neither does Hanzo, but the damn fool won’t admit that. Jesse had him pinned as reckless long before this, but the truth of it sitting in front of him makes a cold, hard knot form in the pit of his stomach. He pushes down the wriggle of anger — at Hanzo for running around without them, at Overwatch for letting him. It’s not the time. 

“At least let me get you patched up with a _real_ first aid kit. Unlike some guys I know, I have biotic gel.” 

Hanzo snorts. “Never mind. I have wasted enough time.”

“Then they’ve either already left and there’s no point in rushin’, or they stayed put and will still be there in a few hours.” He doesn’t seem sold, so Jesse adds, “Why go in at a disadvantage?”

Hanzo, stubborn as he may be, doesn’t have a good answer for that. While Jesse watches, he fits a patch of sterile gauze over the wound to at least soak up some of the blood. He has to finagle how he places the last of the tape to hold it in place, because there’s not quite enough. Jesse would laugh, if he weren’t so angry at him. Then Hanzo carefully pries his bloody shirt off. 

“What are you—?”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow. “Changing.” 

“You’re just gonna get blood on another one.”

“Then I will change that too. This one is… wet.” Hanzo wrinkles his nose. Then he continues wriggling out of the shirt, one hand slapped over his shitty, slapdash bandage. Jesse’s seen him in enough fitted clothes to have known, intellectually, what Hanzo probably looks like under there, but it’s a lot different now that it’s just skin. He’s broad across the shoulders and narrow at the waist, and everything in between is starkly defined. His muscles bunch and flex with the movement, and Jesse wants to sink his teeth into the yellow bruise tucked between his collarbone and the slope of one pec. His sweats sit low enough that Jesse can see the beginnings of deep furrows that disappear beneath the waistband. 

Hanzo catches him staring and looks away quickly. He pulls on another t-shirt, starting with the arm on the injured side and working it gingerly up and over. Swallowing around a dry tongue, Jesse finally tears his gaze away and directs it at the ceiling instead. Lord have mercy.

“I am ready,” Hanzo announces, and if Jesse weren’t so convinced Hanzo’s only _barely_ tolerating his presence, he might think he sounds amused. 

Jesse’s room halfway across town is as dim as Hanzo’s and maybe more cramped, although that might have more to do with Jesse’s growing awareness of Hanzo in his space again. In the bathroom he forces himself to breathe. Rhythmic, in and out, staring past his hands while he scrubs every tiny crevice of his prosthetic. Then he grabs all the linens and takes them with him. 

There’s nowhere for Hanzo to sit but the bed, so Jesse kneels on the floor in front of him. It doesn’t escape his notice that this position is not unlike the fantasies that have been fueling his downtime lately. The thought is distracting, so he locks that one away with the others. He pushes up the hem of Hanzo’s shirt and starts carefully undoing the tape around the bandage, and he resolutely refuses to think about the show he just got or how warm Hanzo’s skin is. 

The wound is mostly clean, but the torn sutures stick out haphazardly. It looks like they were put in haphazardly too. “Who did this half-assed bullsh—” Hanzo won’t meet his eye. “Oh, of course. You did it yourself.” 

“It was necessary,” Hanzo mumbles. 

Jesse sighs and carefully cleans up the wound with one of the washcloths from the bathroom. “Your stitches suck.” 

“I was in a rush.”

“That’s not really reassurin’ me.” 

Hanzo hums, definitely amused this time, and he doesn’t argue. Jesse works in silence, plucking the old ripped sutures free, then setting to work adding his own. Unwelcome images float through his mind. He can picture a thousand scenarios that let Hanzo’s supplies get so low, and he doesn’t like a single one of them. He shoves each down and focuses on what’s in front of him right this minute. 

Hanzo remains utterly still, save for the occasional, involuntary twitch of muscle beneath Jesse’s touch. When he glances up, Hanzo’s eyes are squeezed shut, brow drawn, and he is breathing in a slow, controlled rhythm. Hurting, despite the painkillers he took. 

Jesse’s never had the lightest touch, but he does his best to be gentle, to balance it the best he can with working quickly so he’s not drawing it out. Every time his fingers slip in the blood slowly oozing from the wound, he has to fight with the anger roiling inside him. He knows the anger’s covering for something much worse, and he doesn’t let himself linger on that at all. He has to wash the wound again, and then his hands, which tremble under the running water.

He takes up the same position again, kneeling on the floor, eye level with Hanzo’s torso. Hanzo could probably do this part himself, but neither man points that out. This time, it’s harder to ignore the heat of Hanzo’s skin while he rubs the biotic gel on and puts a new, sturdier bandage over it all. He smooths his hand gently over it, and he looks back up at Hanzo’s face. “All done.” 

“Thank you for your assistance,” Hanzo says again, tone uncomfortably formal for a guy Jesse just sewed up. “I need nothing further.” Dismissing him like a servant. 

Jesse laughs, some of the nerves escaping with the sound. “You need to rest.”

“I _need_ to finish this job.” 

“And ruin my hard work?” He tries to make it light; he doesn’t really have the right to argue more. Hanzo is stubbornly silent, and his face is… complicated. “You hurt somewhere else?” Jesse guesses, though he doesn’t think it’s that. Hanzo shakes his head wordlessly. The thing clenching inside Jesse’s chest loosens somewhat with the release of a shuddering breath. “Guess we’re good then. Try to give it a couple hours before you—” He hisses through his teeth, too many things bubbling up at once. “I’m sorry.”

“You have been very helpful. There is nothing to apologize for.” Hanzo is rigid beneath his hand, his voice carefully flat; there’s no way he doesn’t know what Jesse’s talking about. 

“Not that,” Jesse says anyway. “I meant—”

“This is hardly the time.”

“You ever gonna give me the time?” Frustration bleeds into his voice, and Hanzo doesn’t answer. “I shouldn’t have left, and I’ve been mad at myself every day since, and I know it’s stupid ’cause we barely know each other, but I feel it and I know you do too. Or you did. Maybe I messed that up. I don’t know, but I’m sorry.”

Hanzo breathes deeper, abdomen pressing into Jesse’s palm as his lungs fill. Then he lets it all out. “I believe you.” He finally, really _looks_ at Jesse again, a faint, dry smile on his face. “Does this mean you are going to rejoin Overwatch?” 

“No.” Hanzo nods, unsurprised. “I’m sorry about that too.” Jesse clears his throat, then he asks the thing he’s suspected for a while now. “You’re not really a full agent, are you?”

“No,” Hanzo says with a barely-there flinch. “More like an… independent contractor.”

“And bringin’ me in was supposed to change that.”

Hanzo takes another of those long, steadying breaths. “Yes. It would have marked the end of my _probationary period.”_ His mouth twists unhappily. 

“What is it now? They’ve gotta know by now that I’m not comin’.”

“This mission will be my last before I go back.”

Jesse nods. He doesn’t bring up the times Hanzo let him go anyway, or the times either of them called a truce, or how much he doesn’t want Hanzo to leave him again. Instead he says, “I’ll make you a deal. You stay put a few hours to let this thing heal up, I’ll help you finish this job. Gotta be easier with two people, right?”

“And if they have moved on?”

“I’ll still help. However long it takes. I don’t wanna be the reason you’re… stuck.” 

Hanzo swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Alright. We have a deal.”

In the silence that follows, Jesse’s reminded how close they are. He still has a hand on Hanzo’s waist, and he’s on his knees, and he’s just confessed his feelings, more or less. Even if Hanzo didn’t exactly share his thoughts on that, he didn’t shut Jesse down either. And now he’s staring down at Jesse with an expression that is hopelessly unreadable, but it’s not angry or cold or any of that this time. This one makes Jesse’s breath stutter. They’ve been here before — walked right up to the line only to back down — but Jesse’s heart still thuds like it’s the first time, like he can honestly expect some follow through. 

An electric current thrums between them. Every breath comes shorter and shallower. Jesse’s tensing to flee again when Hanzo seizes the back of his neck and yanks him upward, mouth crashing down into his. 

Hanzo’s kiss is a hungry, biting thing that leaves no time to shake off the surprise. His tongue sweeps into Jesse’s mouth like it owns the place, demanding and so dizzying that it takes work to keep up, to push up and into it so Hanzo’s not bent down so far. Months’ worth of suppressed longing rushes hot to the surface, and Jesse jerks him forward, lodging himself between Hanzo’s spread thighs. 

Only when Hanzo grunts against his mouth does Jesse remember the injury. He tries to back off, slow down maybe, and definitely apologize, but it’s muffled when Hanzo tightens his hold on Jesse’s hair and doesn’t let him get away. Jesse leans helplessly back into it, breathless and hard in an instant.

Hanzo is merciless, touching Jesse’s throat, his hair, skimming his shoulders, grasping at his chest, everywhere at once like he’s grown extra limbs. One hand snakes down between them, and Jesse twitches into the touch, laughing as the kiss finally breaks. “Sweetheart, you keep that up and this is barely gonna last. Still, ah, a lot of time to kill. And you should maybe not aggravate that thing.”

Hanzo lets him go, plucking instead at the buttons of Jesse’s shirt. Hanzo’s teeth are at his throat, facial hair scraping skin when he growls into his ear. “Show me how you want it, then.” It takes a moment for Jesse to catch his meaning, then he’s fumbling to do as he’s told, arms tangling with Hanzo’s, whose hands are still working on those buttons. “Did you think about me?” 

“All the time.”

“When you touched yourself?” 

Jesse laughs, breathless. “All the time.”

“Tell me what you thought about.” Hanzo finally gets Jesse’s shirt undone, raking over his skin with eyes and touch alike.

“Holy hell, darlin’,” Jesse pants as he drops back onto his heels, fingers clumsy on the fly of his jeans. He tries to take his time, because there’s a lot of material to go over, and because he wants it to last. If this is the only chance he’s getting, he’s going to milk it for all it’s worth. But he really should have known Hanzo would be the type to go from zero to sixty in half a second, and Jesse’s whole body feels alive with the thrill of it.

Hanzo’s knuckles go white where he’s gripping his pants at the knee, but otherwise he looks _regal_ somehow. Dark eyes burn straight through him while Jesse explains in vivid detail everything he’s pictured them doing together. Some distant part of him thinks he should feel ashamed, on his knees, jerking off while he confesses every dirty thing he’s thought about Hanzo since they parted — if not shame over the content, then over the sheer quantity — but instead it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever done.

When Hanzo has finally had his fill of watching, he sits back with his legs spread, and Jesse blows him exactly the way he described, one hand working between his own legs. Just as he imagined, Hanzo does fist a hand into his hair, fingers spasming helplessly until long after it’s over. 

Neither of them speaks about whether this is the last time as well as the first, but when Jesse’s done cleaning up, Hanzo coaxes him onto the bed and kisses him again. They shouldn’t really sleep or lose track of time, but it feels good to just kiss someone. Have someone close for a while. 

Jesse’s aware he missed Hanzo, but only now does it really hit him how long it’s been since he had anyone this close to him. He soaks it up, keeping it as playful as he can so that Hanzo doesn’t get a sense of how badly Jesse needs this. Hanzo doesn’t seem like he’d mind even if he did know anyway, because he simply lies on his side facing Jesse, sometimes talking and sometimes kissing and sometimes only watching his face. 

When Hanzo says his injury no longer hurts, Jesse nudges him onto his back and kisses his way down Hanzo’s chest and stomach, mouthing moving softly over his skin — and ticklishly, apparently, although Hanzo takes great pains to hide it. Then Jesse checks the bandage. Part of him wants to lie and buy more time, but it’s healed more than enough by now. 

He tells the truth, quietly bursting their peaceful bubble. 

* * *

Like he predicted, Talon never moved. They get in and out in less than an hour, and they take a few grunts with them on the way to the exit. It’s easy and quick, and that’s just Jesse’s luck. 

Now he’s watching Hanzo pack his things. He likes to imagine Hanzo’s dragging his feet, but that would be stupid. They both need to get out of here in case Reaper or what’s left of this Talon deployment come looking. It would be stupid to waste time, but here Jesse is, already packed and refusing to leave. He wants to ask Hanzo to stay in the States, but he knows that’s asking him to choose between a stable home and life on the road — between Jesse and his brother — and the person who asks that doesn’t deserve to get chosen. 

When Hanzo finishes, he stares at his hands, brow drawn tight again. He doesn’t look at Jesse as he says, “It will take some time to arrange a flight.” It’s hardly a declaration of his undying devotion, but it still punches the air out of Jesse’s lungs. “I could… leave in the morning.”

This time, Jesse drives, and he doesn’t stop until they’re a few towns over. He shells out for a nicer place, another one with an actual lobby and rooms that don’t face the parking lot. They shower and eat and dance awkwardly around each other for a while before they finally fall into bed again. 

The sex isn’t any less intense than before. If anything, it’s more. Hanzo’s kisses still have that hungry edge to them. He’s pushy, utterly certain of himself and without reservations. It claws at Jesse’s insides, burns him from the inside out, leaves him gasping for air. Before they’re finished, Jesse marks him with his teeth, one more bruise among all those he’s earned on the job. 

Jesse tries not to fall asleep. This is all he’s getting, and he doesn’t want to waste it unconscious. But it’s been a long, long day, and there’s only so much stalling he can do.

When he wakes up, he’s alone. Hanzo’s things are gone. It’s not a surprise. Jesse would probably do it the same way, skip out early so there’s no awkward goodbye. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. 

He gets his shit together quickly, unwilling to sit around contemplating a bed too big for one person. He’s in such a rush he almost misses the note. It’s short and simple, so plain that it is hilarious even with his heart trying to crawl up his throat: _Sorry. Thank you. Farewell._

After that, there’s a phone number. Despite all the rest, Jesse grins. 

* * *

Tracking Reaper is a pain and a half. It becomes his full-time job. The misery of the mission is balanced by how much Jesse’s insides light up when he gets a text from Hanzo. 

The messages are mostly inane. Hanzo texts like Jesse has any idea what’s going on at the Watchpoint, probably assuming the new Overwatch operates enough like the old one that Jesse doesn’t need context. He does, but he doesn’t ask for it, because he likes the way Hanzo tells it. 

Hanzo’s observations about his teammates are sometimes mean, sometimes funny, and sometimes shockingly fond. Jesse might be jealous, for example, of Hanzo’s palpable awe and fierce protectiveness over Dr. Zhou, if he weren’t the person Hanzo was telling all this to in the first place. There are other things Hanzo doesn’t say but that Jesse can suss out for himself: life with Genji is difficult. Angela doesn’t like him. Some of their other teammates treat him with varying degrees of suspicion. Jesse waffles between understanding where they’re coming from and feeling indignant on Hanzo’s behalf. 

Hanzo sends him pictures too. Most are of the Mediterranean, taken from high up on the Rock. Hanzo likes to watch the boats. He says he likes to fish. The only thing Jesse can think to reply to that is, _Come on, man. You’re not even forty yet._ Hanzo responds with a goddamn selfie of him dressed to go bow fishing, chest and arms and ridiculous abs all fully on display. Jesse takes back every judgmental thought he’s ever had about boring ass hobbies, and he saves the photo. After that, Jesse tries angling for even more inspirational pictures, but Hanzo says it’s his turn, and every time Jesse _tries_ to take a lewd picture, he can feel the blush creeping all the way down his chest and he chickens out. He sends a lot of food pics though. 

It helps occupy him, but when he’s not focused on work or grinning like a dumbass texting Hanzo, the emptiness comes rushing back. The giddiness is a high, but like any high, its absence brings a crash that reminds him what he’s missing, makes him wonder if it’s worth it. Then he gets another message, and he forgets about the low points for a little while, and it starts all over. 

He doesn’t know what they are or what they’re doing. They had sex one time — well, twice, but in a single day — and they’re probably friends, and the texts and pictures definitely constitute flirting, but there’s no name for it. No conversation dictating rules or expectations. Hanzo calls one evening when he can’t sleep. It’s the wee hours of the morning in Gibraltar. They talk about nothing in particular until Jesse rumbles drowsily into the phone, “So what, you just missed my voice that much, darlin’?” 

Hanzo breathes out too loudly and says, “Yes.” What happens after suggests that the sex was not a one-time deal, but nothing about this says it’s sustainable. Could just be passing the time. 

Doesn’t take long before the cat’s out of the bag. Hanzo forgets to turn his phone off in a meeting. After that, Jesse has to field increasingly annoying messages from Angie and Genji, and less frequent ones from Echo and Lena, even a few from Fareeha, although she was still with Helix last Jesse checked. During one of their late night talks, Hanzo asks him with surprising delicacy if he’s still convinced his friends don’t care. Rather than the phone sex he thought he was going to have, Jesse spends the next hour waxing philosophical about the difference between Overwatch as an institution and Overwatch, the group of mostly decent people. When he finally trails off, Hanzo is silent except for the quiet snore barely picked up by the receiver. Upon reflection, Jesse might have had that coming. 

He finds Reaper twice in as many months, and he loses him both times. He publishes a couple articles and blog posts, and he pitches a few more. He picks up some bounties, but the jobs aren’t really a challenge. He’s bored more often than not. 

Something’s eating at Hanzo too. There’s a tension in some of their conversations now. They don’t snipe at each other or anything, and Jesse’s pretty sure that he’s not the problem, but Hanzo always seems dissatisfied with something. Jesse imagines someone like Hanzo, a born leader turned lone wolf, working on a team, and low on the hierarchy to boot. There’s no way that’s easy. 

Then Jesse finally gets another rumor about Reaper. He’s still on the move, but he’s not in the States any more. He’s in Europe. Rome, most often. By hypertrain, it’s practically a stone’s throw from— 

Jesse sighs. 

He resists as long as he can, but now that he’s had the thought, it won’t go away. He almost gives himself a nervous breakdown over it: imagining his return to Overwatch, imagining the new Watchpoint going the way of the old HQ in Geneva, imagining it hurting Hanzo and every friend he has, the pests that won’t leave him _alone_ so that he can wallow and believe he really _is_ alone, smother all his fear with rage instead. 

“Fuck me,” he groans into his hands. Then he sends another text message, but not to Hanzo. 

* * *

The weather is so pleasant it’s almost suspicious, and this high up he can’t really smell the salt. Without the trepidation to weigh him down, he might actually be able to enjoy it.

His arrival is relatively quiet. Shockingly subtle for Lena, actually, who picked him up from the airport. Nobody announces his presence. He meets privately with Winston, who is excited to have him, if harried and disappointed by the rules Jesse sets down about how he wants to work. 

The only person he sees in the hallway is a young redhead he’s never met, who is trailed by an enormous white cat. She waves cheerfully, but Jesse gets the impression she’s like that for anyone. Never meets a stranger, probably. 

He gives himself time to set all his stuff down, but after that he can’t keep to himself any longer. He knocks on the door Winston told him about, pulse racing. He’s starting to second guess, wondering if he should give some kind of warning before just showing up at Hanzo’s door. That’s when it opens. 

Hanzo stares like he thinks he’s imagining it. “Uh, hey,” Jesse says, gripped with sudden, overwhelming nerves. 

There’s nothing to worry about, if the tongue down his throat is anything to go by. If that didn’t sell it, the part where Hanzo drags him into the room and nearly attempts to _climb_ him definitely does the trick. He’s out of breath by the time they’re finished. Hanzo won’t stop touching him, which is equal parts distracting and flattering. 

“Why are you here?”

“Guess I’m signin’ on. Give or take some contract negotiations. Looks like you finished your mission after all.”

That makes Hanzo hesitate. “Did you come here for…” He’s not going to finish the question. It’s probably an embarrassing thing to ask. 

“It’s complicated? Uh.” Even after the way Hanzo greeted him, after _everything,_ it’s hard to convince himself to say anything out loud. Jesse scratches the back of his neck. “Y’know, I thought about what you said about… how I’ve been toward people. And now Reaper’s in Europe. And I remembered you callin’ yourself an independent contractor, and I thought there were some _options_ other than the way things used to be. So there were a lot of reasons.” Hanzo nods, understanding, and his face is doing that carefully neutral thing that makes Jesse realize he’s fucking something up somehow. He sucks in a breath. “But you were maybe a not-insignificant part of the equation. You know. If that’s not weird. For you.”

Hanzo does something very strange then: he steps back, angling his body toward his room like he’s inviting Jesse further in. There are clothes folded on the bed, and there’s Hanzo’s familiar duffel bag, and a first aid kit that Jesse hopes is fully stocked this time. Wait. 

“You goin’ somewhere?”

Hanzo laughs, the sound shot through with anxiety. “I was considering a… leave of absence. To do some further independent work.” Hanzo clears his throat, and his face is slowly turning beet red. “I was thinking North America.” He glances meaningfully at Jesse. “So no, I do not think it’s weird.”

It takes Jesse a moment to catch his drift, but once he does, he can’t stop the grin that’s about to split his face in two. “In that case, I was thinkin’, there’s a lot of jobs out there that don’t need a whole strike team. And Winston told me I could contribute however I saw myself best fittin’ into the new organization. And I really did like workin’ with you. We don’t have to stay here, but we could come back sometimes. Can have us a little freedom but keep a safe place to land.” Jesse’s never been much for looking too far ahead. It’s always given him something like vertigo. But this doesn’t feel unreasonable or like he’s aiming too high, doomed to fail. This feels like it simply fits. “So what do you say? Partners?”

Hanzo’s smile gives away the answer long before he summons the words.


End file.
